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Chapter Text

It’s only Wednesday, and Feinberg finds himself on the business end of a handgun for the third time this week.

Damn it, he owes Reign fifty bucks. 

Feinberg leans against a street lamp, which happens to be the only one positioned on the corner of the vacant street he’d agreed to meet at. If Feinberg knew it would be this dark, he would have brought a flashlight.

Still, Feinberg is no stranger to risking his life. Chalk it up to experience, but he can tell the villain before him has no interest in murder.

“It’s unwise to kill the only guy capable of healing that nasty wound you’ve got there.” Feinberg gestures lazily to the gash running along his assailant’s collarbone. “You’re lucky you didn’t nick an artery.”

“Stop beating around the bush, Fine.” In the twilight, the man before Feinberg is only a shadowy silhouette. A cloth mask similar to Feinberg’s obscures his mouth; a pair of tinted glasses hides the rest of his face. “Can you fix me?”

Feinberg shrugs. “Lower your weapon.”

This one is rather obedient, Feinberg thinks, as the villian returns his gun to somewhere Feinberg can’t see.

Maybe it’s because he’s dying.

Call him crazy, but Feinberg suspects a much more lethal injury is hiding behind that stab wound to the shoulder.

Feinberg approaches the villain. “Can I get a name?”

“Answer my question, or I’ll kill you, capiche?”

“Hey, man.” Feinberg peels his glove from his right hand. “I’m not a cop. Just need to know who I’m dealin’ with. Helps with the paperwork.”

“Poundcake.”

Feinberg frowns. “I meant your real name.”

“No can do, sir.” Poundcake is… teasing Feinberg? At a time like this? “Nobody knows that one, and you’re not going to be the first. It’s Poundcake to you.”

Poundcake. Come to think of it, Feinberg has heard of a vigilante by that name before.

“You’re not a villain.” Feinberg gathers the neck of Poundcake’s sweater, pulling it away from his collarbone, letting out a low whistle. “That’s a deep cut. What kind of trouble do you vigilantes get into these days?”

“I, uh—“

“Rhetorical question,” Feinberg says. “What’s your blood type?”

“O negative.”

“Universal donor, nice.” Feinberg removes his other glove. “This might sting a little.”

Feinberg feels Poundcake tense beneath his touch as he runs his fingertips along the edge of the vigilante’s wound. Warmth prickles beneath his fingernails as he watches fresh skin grow over the cut, leaving only a small outline of scar tissue.

“Thank you,” Poundcake stammers, watching Feinberg pull his gloves back over his hands. “What do I owe you?”

“Fifty,” Feinberg says, shrugging. 

Poundcake reaches into his back pocket; Feinberg’s eyes follow his hand.

Poundcake’s hand tremors. Just his right one, only for a moment. It’s subtle, but it’s enough for Feinberg to reach out and grab the vigilante’s wrist as he hands Feinberg a crumpled bill.

Through his gloves, Feinberg’s precision is stunted, but it should still be enough. His fingertips burn as if Poundcake is feverish; Feinberg’s arm tenses as he funnels what feels to be an endless amount of power into his hands. The ache in his muscles turns to agony, but he can’t let go. His thoughts melt into a slurred haze of drowsiness—

Poundcake jerks his hand away. 

Feinberg knows this, despite his eyes having fallen shut, because a bolt of electricity tears through his arm at the sudden severance. Feinberg hisses in pain, stumbling backward as he pries his eyes open. 

“What,” Poundcake whispers. “Did you just do?”

“I, um,” Feinberg searches for the words, finding nothing. He sways on his feet unsteadily; his hand finds the post behind him and clings to it, his knuckles white. Each time he blinks, his eyes stay shut for a little longer.

Through the high-pitched ringing in Feinberg’s ears, he hears Poundcake whimper, followed by a set of frantic footsteps receding.

Feinberg staggers backward, wincing as his spine collides with the lamppost. His legs fold beneath him, and he crumples into a heap on the sidewalk, his head resting against his knees. A withheld breath escapes from his lungs.

Poundcake must have had one hell of an infection. 

—

“Excuse me, sir.” 

Feinberg barely registers the words through the fog in his brain. 

Couri, he wants to say. I don’t have work today.  

“Sir?” 

Feinberg groans, begrudgingly opening his eyes. He lifts his head, vaguely aware of the goggles pressing against his face. 

What?

Feinberg blinks, struggling to make out the figure before him. 

Something… golden. Round, dark eyes brimming with concern, rich brown hair carefully combed to the side, and and eerily familiar voice—

“C— Icarus?” Even in his enervated state, Feinberg manages to catch himself. 

“Are you alright?” Early rays of sunlight reflect in the lenses of Icarus’s glasses.

The events from before come crashing into Feinberg, and his breath hitches. 

In times of crisis, Feinberg does what he does best— he lies to his roommate. 

Thanks to the voice changing module in Feinberg’s mask, he can answer without worry. “Just fine. I may have had a little too much to drink earlier.”

Feinberg doesn’t like speaking to Couriway while he’s out doing illegal activities under a not-so-subtle pseudonym, but staying quiet is even more suspicious.

Feinberg sinks his teeth into his lower lip as he searches Couriway’s face for a reaction.

“Oh, right.” Icarus replies, the interest in his eyes fading away. “D’you need a hand?”

“If you’ll be so kind.”

When Feinberg clasps his hand around Couriway’s, he takes the opportunity to run a quick wellness check. It’s not often Feinberg gets to check out Couriway’s wings. 

Feinberg gets to his feet, his hightened senses reporting nothing out of the ordinary. “Thanks.” Feinberg nods in acknowledgment at his roommate, every bone in his body screaming at him to get out of there. “I’ll just be on my way.”

“Sorry to ask, sir, but that outfit you’re wearing—are you a hero? I haven’t seen you around here.”

Shit.

“I’m afraid not,” Feinberg says, wincing. “Just a big fan, if you will.”

“Oh,” Icarus mutters lamely. “Okay then. Word of advice, invest in a designated driver next time.”

Even though he knows it’s not directed at him, the exhausted disappointment in Couriway’s voice makes Feinberg’s heart squeeze.

“Right, yeah.” Feinberg turns on his heel, stumbling. As he squints at his feet, as if to scold them for disobeying, the splitting headache Feinberg has been ignoring surges back in full force.

Spots flicker in Feinberg’s vision. Skies, he may as well be hungover.

He fumbles his phone from his pocket, searching for his messages with Reign. 

If Couri asks, I was with you all night. 

Reign responds immediately. 

What did you do this time?

Feinberg chuckles. 

Let’s just say I owe you fifty bucks.

Feinberg slides his phone back into his pocket, shaking his head.

He needs to find a better career.

“Y’know, you could just be his sidekick or something,” Reign says, kicking the door closed as Feinberg strides into his apartment.

“Sounds like a nightmare,” Feinberg mumbles, tossing his goggles and mask on the coffee table before collapsing onto Reign’s couch.

Reign scoffs. “And your current job isn’t?”

“Could be worse,” Feinberg replies, his words muffled from the pillow smushed against his cheek. “Nobody knows who I am. I can protect Couri and live in anonymity. If I become his sidekick, I’ll have cameras up my ass constantly.”

“Not to mention all those pesky laws you’d have to follow.” Reign nudges Feinberg’s legs with his foot. “Move.”

Feinberg lifts his head, frowning at Reign. “I don’t enjoy breaking the law.”

Reign’s expression twists, his dark eyes boring into Feinberg’s.

Feinberg stares back in bewilderment. “What?”

“You look like shit,” Reign says quietly, an alien air of concern about his voice.

“Thanks,” Fein retorts, running a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers quickly become entangled. 

“What happened last night?” Reign asks, almost hesitantly, as if he knows the answer already. 

“Overclocked my power, I think.” Feinberg averts his eyes, opting to stare at his trembling hands. “Dude had some sort of underlying illness I didn’t know about.”

“Bullshit,” Reign quips, and Feinberg is almost taken aback by the sudden hostility.

“That’s what happened,” Feinberg’s head snaps in Reign’s direction. “What, you don’t believe me?”

Reign sighs, deep and heavy. 

Not good.

Dread begins to seep into Feinberg’s veins. “What?”

Like an exasperated parent, Reign presses a hand to his forehead. “You have to know what you’re treating to heal it. If you don’t, you’re running the risk of serious complications.”

Feinberg huffs in annoyance. “Since when are you my doctor?”

There’s that icy glare again. “You could have died.”

“Yeah, like the gun to my head didn’t make that obvious.” Feinberg retorts, a twinge of bitterness on his tongue.

“Fein,” Reign pleads, and Feinberg lets out a reluctant sigh. “I know you care about him, but training your power on random criminals isn’t going to be helpful to you or him.”

“I just wanted to know if I could do it,” Feinberg’s fingernails dig into his palms. “If he ever really needs me, I want to be there—“

“He doesn’t need you.” Reign’s voice peaks in volume. Regret immediately flashes in Reign’s eyes as he realizes what he said, but the damage has been done.

The silence rings in Feinberg’s ears. 

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re not a hero, Feinberg!” Rising frustration leaks into Reign’s words. “He is.”

“I can still help him,” Feinberg counters with irritation of his own. “Sorry that my caring about someone other than you bothers you.”

Reign hisses a laugh through gritted teeth. “This is not about my ego.”

Feinberg raises an eyebrow. “What is it about, then?”

“You really think I’m jealous of your fuckin’ roommate, dude?” Reign rises from his seat, his volume climbing in tandem. “Do you honestly believe there’s no way I simply care about your well-being?”

“If you cared about me, you’d know I can take care of myself.” Feinberg stands, his body swaying unsteadily. He turns away, swiping his belongings from the coffee table and stuffing them in his bag.

“You can’t be serious, man.” Feinberg can feel Reign’s sharpened gaze assessing him. “You look like you’re on death’s doorstep.”

Feinberg shoves a hand in his pocket, fishing out the wrinkled bill from earlier. He slaps the note into Reign’s palm and storms out of the apartment. 

A muffled chime resonates from Feinberg’s pocket, and he produces his phone, lazily typing in his passcode, expecting to see a message from Reign begging him to come back.

Much to Feinberg’s chagrin, the message is from his roommate, Couriway. 

Where are you?

Feinberg is about to shut his phone off when another message appears on the screen. 

You didn’t come home last night. I was out looking for you for hours.

I have to go to work. Please let me know when you get home.

Feinberg sighs, leaning against the wall as his eyes beg to be closed.

Maybe Reign has a point.

Chapter Text

With each beat of Couriway’s wings, he wheezes deeper into his lungs. 

His wings weren’t made for high-speed chase sequences. 

The criminal Couriway is pursuing, Poundcake, bounces between rooftops effortlessly, graceful as if he’d done it thousands of times before. 

Couriway groans inwardly. Just the other day, this guy could barely cling to a wall without losing his focus and sliding off. Now he’s doing pirouettes through the sky as he escapes Couriway’s grasp once again.

As the wind whips his hair in erratic circles, Couriway pulls his goggles over his glasses, squinting at the dark figure in the distance.

Couriway narrowly avoids the rooftop fence of a nearby building. His sneaker scrapes against the wire painfully, and he almost forgets to flap. He quickly corrects himself, grimacing as his stomach flips when he beats his wings, rocketing himself into the sky.

As Poundcake becomes a pinprick on the horizon, Couriway sighs, tucking in his wings and landing elegantly on the top of a post, careful to avoid the transformer connecting the cables responsible for powering the city.

The sun was setting anyway, he tells himself. I wouldn’t have been able to fly for much longer.

Early afternoons are his prime patrol hours. The sun beams down on his wings, enabling them to double—and in rare cases, triple—in size.

Six in the evening isn’t great for him. There’s no sense in fighting a losing battle.

Plus, Couriway’s roommate, Feinberg, was out all night yesterday doing skies-know-what and seriously worrying Couriway in the process. Couriway needs to make sure he’s okay.

Couriway leaps from his perch, wincing only slightly as his feet meet the pavement. With a wave of his hand, his wings disappear from his shoulders, and he slides a hand under the strap of his goggles, slipping them off. 

Couriway shrugs off his jacket, folding it over his arm. He places his coat and goggles in his satchel and removes a pair of shiny black loafers from a well-concealed pocket. He sighs, kicks off his sneakers, and steps into business casual. With a final flourish, Couriway crams his sneakers against his jacket, barely managing to close the satchel as he slings it over his shoulder.

Couriway can’t risk walking into his apartment dressed in such blatant heroic attire. His roommate doesn’t know about his real profession, and he would like to keep it that way.

Couriway crosses the empty street, unnervingly aware of the rhythmic clicking beneath his heels. He slips through the unlatched gate in front of his apartment complex into the lobby, past the out of order sign plastered to only one of the elevators despite both being broken, and pushes open the concrete door to the stairwell, gritting his teeth as his shoulder throbs in protest. 

When Couri gets to his apartment, thankful that the day is over, he finds his roommate leaning against the wall, just under the metal plate marked “20.” (At one point, Couriway would like to think it read 209).

“Locked myself out,” Feinberg says in the most unenthused manner that Couriway can’t help but snicker, cracking a smile for the first time in what felt like years.

“Bozo,” Couriway sneers, though lacking malice, as he unlocks the door and ceremoniously waves for Feinberg to go in first. “Is that why you didn’t come home last night?” 

“Yeah.” Feinberg steps inside just enough to allow Couriway to pass by him. “Didn’t want to bother you, so I spent the night at Reign’s place.”

Before Couriway can insist Feinberg wouldn’t have bothered him, Feinberg speaks again.

“What’s up with that cut on your cheek?” Feinberg asks, striding across the foyer to the refrigerator.

Couriway lifts his hand, gingerly touching the scratch just above his cheekbone, flinching as his fingers sting the freshly-exposed skin. “Uh,” he replies dumbly. “I don’t know.”

Where did this cut come from?

Feinberg retrieves a carton of orange juice from the fridge, unscrewing the cap and downing its contents in one gulp. “Mmm,” he acknowledges, crushing the carton in the palm of his hand. “You gotta be more careful,” he pauses, his eyebrows furrowing. “Doin’ whatever the hell you do.”

“Yeah,” Couri answers distractedly, staring at the smudged blood on his fingertips.

“Something on your mind?” Feinberg kicks the refrigerator door closed, attempting to toss the crumpled carton into the bin across the kitchen and missing by a considerable margin. “Damn.”

“Give me that,” Couriway mutters, plucking the carton from the floor. He turns and launches the carton over his shoulder, spinning around just in time to watch it land square in the middle of the bin. He grins at Feinberg, thrusting his hand into the air, poised for a high-five. 

Feinberg sighs dramatically, looking away as he rests his elbows on the counter. “Show-off.”

“Dude, you can’t just leave me hanging.”

Feinberg rolls his eyes, stifling a grin as he haphazardly smacks Couriway’s palm, brushing past him in favor of settling on an armchair near the door. “What’s up, though, really?”

“Nothing,” Couriway answers with a subtle shake of his head. “Work has just been frustrating lately.”

Feinberg nods sagely. “Wanna pick the show tonight?”

Couriway smile returns. “Yes, please.”

3:00, the clock reads. 

Feinberg blinks blearily, propping himself up in bed with his elbow. The green display of his clock bleeds into his vision, leaving a purplish afterimage every time he closes his eyes.

3:01.

Ever since the incident last week, Feinberg hasn’t slept through the night. Tossing and turning, startling awake, sweating, shaking—you name it, Feinberg’s endured it instead of sleeping.

He hasn’t spoken to Reign. He doesn’t want to admit to himself that his friend is right, and he wants to admit that to Reign even less.

Feinberg has never passed out while using his powers. Part of him dreads the idea that his power is finite, and somehow he’s used it all up. Without it, how else is he supposed to make a living?

How else is he supposed to protect his friends?

Feinberg groans softly, sitting up and planting his feet on the floor. He stands slowly, blinking away the static clouding his vision. He trudges into the hallway, his eyes glued to his roommate’s bedroom door, slightly ajar.

He nudges the door open just enough for him to slip through, grimacing as the hinges squeal. 

“Couri?” He whispers, watching the pile of blankets on his roommate's bed.

When Couri doesn’t answer, Feinberg approaches the bed. As expected, Couriway is fast asleep, blankets pulled almost all the way over his head. 

Feinberg’s gaze gravitates to the cut on Couri’s cheek, and Feinberg frowns at it. 

Skies, this is creepy. If Couriway were to wake up to Feinberg standing over his bed like a lunatic, Feinberg would have a lot of explaining to do.

Still, Feinberg has to know. He needs to know.

At a snail’s pace, Feinberg extends his hand, eventually resting two of his fingers just below Couriway’s cheekbone.

He almost tears up when he feels the familiar prickle of warmth under his cuticles, his fingertips glowing a pale fuschia in the dim light. Feinberg is careful not to heal the scratch completely, just enough for it not to bother Couriway anymore.

As he retracts his hand, Feinberg notices no significant deficit in his energy. Though, maybe it’s because he can’t lose what he never had.

Maybe it only happens when he’s healing things he can’t identify?

Either way, Feinberg is relieved that he still has to lie to his roommate about his power, and returns to his room. 

Hopefully he can sleep easier now.

Feinberg stirs awake at what he can only assume to be half-past seven, given the unmistakable chime of his roommate’s daily alarm filtering through the wall.

Feinberg almost considers going back to sleep, but he quickly squashes the notion. He has work to do.

He patiently listens to the ungodly squealing of the rusty shower head in his shared bathroom, then the absolute lullaby of a hairdryer’s gentle hum. Seriously, he almost falls asleep. The only reason he doesn’t is because Couriway practically kicks his damn door down to announce his departure for work.

Feinberg waits until he hears the apartment door close, then springs into action. He gets dressed in record time, taking extra care to gel his hair flat enough so it won’t stick out of his hoodie.

He can’t risk Couriway seeing him in the lobby, so Feinberg unlatches the window and scrambles onto the maintenance balcony below.

Feinberg’s stomach lurches at the drop beneath him, but he is on a mission and he’ll be damned if he lets a little acrophobia get in the way of his destiny. 

Fuck it, Feinberg decides. If he breaks his legs, he can just heal them.

With one sharp breath, Feinberg leaps from the ledge. 

One moment, he’s in the air, in awe of just how fast the ground is catching up to him, and the next, he’s crumpled in the grass behind his apartment building, clutching his ankle that is definitely at least fractured. 

It’s not the worst pain Feinberg has ever felt, but it’s up there. His hands shake from the adrenaline flooding his veins as he tries not to hyperventilate from shock. It doesn’t help that his ankle is sending bolts of electricity up his leg every two seconds. 

He bites his right fingertip, yanking his glove free with his teeth. His left hand stays glued to his ankle, preventing the bone from moving. It’s agonizing, but the bone has to be in the right place when it heals or Feinberg will be in big trouble. 

Is now a good time to mention Feinberg doesn’t have health insurance?

Once Feinberg is pretty sure he’s got the bone to where it was before, he places his right hand on his ankle. Slowly, his fingers heat up, and, even more slowly, the pain dissolves.

Feinberg’s shoulders relax. His erratic breathing steadies. He didn’t realize how tense he was until now. If one more thing went wrong, Feinberg would have snapped in half.

Cautiously, Feinberg lets go of his foot. His hands are still trembling as he stands, pulling his glove back on.

Feinberg jerks his head back and forth, surveying the area for any witnesses. When he finds none, he lets out a shaky sigh.

That was unbelievably stupid.

Fortunately for Feinberg’s self-esteem, he doesn’t have time to stand around pondering the inanity of his actions. He has a roommate to stalk.

It must have been hours of Feinberg peeking around street corners and frantically ducking into alleys when Couriway turned around before a criminal appeared for  Couriway to arrest.

Or whatever heroes do to criminals. Feinberg isn’t all that sure.

Couriway seemed to recognize the guy, shouting something that Feinberg was just out of earshot to hear. The figure is dressed in nearly all black, and has no problem climbing onto rooftops and jumping from window sills to evade Couriway, who is doing a damn good job of keeping up, his wings elegant against the early afternoon sun.

Where can Feinberg learn to do that?

Eventually, Feinberg’s curiosity gets the best of him and he strays a little closer. He only needs to get close enough to see something; any defining characteristic, really. He’s not picky.

Unfortunately for Feinberg, by the time he discovers the identity of the mysterious figure, said figure is already staring right at him.

Good thing he went incognito for this mission. 

Or whatever.

“Yo!” Poundcake calls, startling Couriway enough to stop him in his tracks. “It’s you!”

Couriway turns, and Feinberg considers making a run for it, but the straight stretch of road isn’t doing him any favors in terms of hiding places.

So he waves, tilting his head to the side. He opens his mouth to speak, then snaps it shut. 

Shit.

Feinberg didn’t bother concealing his voice when he met Poundcake, so if he used his voice modulator, something that is dubiously legal, mind you, Poundcake is sure to notice. Knowing that eccentric vigilante, he’d rat Feinberg out without a moment’s hesitation.

Feinberg can’t use his natural voice without compromising his position for obvious reasons.

Feinberg’s only option is to become a mime. Not a talking one, of course, that would be silly.

“Hey, man, I gotta thank you for last week,” Poundcake stands atop the overhang of a nearby corner store, and Couriway keeps looking between him and Feinberg like an idiot. “It’s like magic, dude, you cured me. I haven’t felt this alive since, well, ever.”

Feinberg places a sheepish hand behind his head. 

“You told me you weren’t a hero,” Couriway blurts out, rather rudely given Feinberg was in the middle of speaking.

“Fine, you know this guy?” Poundcake asks, and if Feinberg could roll his eyes any harder, he would. 

Couriway stiffens. It’s subtle, but Feinberg knows his roommate too well not to notice. “F-Fein?”

Feinberg flinches. There it is.

Gotta go.

Feinberg takes off like he left a casserole in the oven back home, making sure to run past Couriway in the opposite direction of their apartment complex, then circling back around on the adjacent street. He'll have to hop the fence, but it’s nothing he hasn’t done before. 

He skids to a stop in the same patch of grass he shattered his bones in just hours before, gasping for breath. He peels his gloves from his hands, shoves them in his pockets, and reaches behind his head to tear his goggles free. He pulls his hoodie over his head and stuffs the whole ensemble in his backpack. He lets himself in through the maintenance door that’s always unlocked, races up the two flights of stairs to his second-floor apartment and fishes for his keys in his pocket.

Feinberg fumbles with his keys, his hands shaking as he attempts to unlock the door. After almost dropping them twice, he throws the door open, wasting no time racing across the apartment to his bedroom. 

He tosses his bag in his closet, and scrambles to pick up the clothes he changed out of that morning. 

After a quick costume change, the adrenaline is wearing off, and Feinberg is no longer tachycardic. 

He navigates to the kitchen, deciding to make himself some macaroni and cheese. The kind with the flavor packet in the plastic cup. What, does Feinberg look rich to you? He heals petty criminals and supervillains for a living.

Feinberg is sunken into the couch, scrolling through his phone when he hears keys jingling and the door swings open.

“Did you know there’s a hero with the same name as you?”

“Good evening to you, too,” Feinberg says, trying his best to feign nonchalance.

Couriway ignores him. “He’s called Fein. Just like you.”

Feinberg sighs inwardly. Couriway isn’t going to let this go. “What’s he look like?”

“Um,” Couriway taps his chin thoughtfully, like they do in cartoons. Feinberg stifles a fond smirk. “Pink and blue hoodie, with matching ski goggles. He was wearing a mask and his hood was up so I couldn't get a good look.”

“Pink is an ugly color,” Feinberg lies through his teeth. “Did you see him use his power?”

“No,” Couriway admits, pressing his thumbs together. “I was late for work, and still a block away from the bus stop.”

Feinberg grins. “That's awfully convenient.”

Couriway’s eyes flick around the room, like they always do when he’s nervous. “What do you mean?”

“The guy didn’t use his power, so it could be anything. Including nothing, like yours truly.”

Couriway stifles a snort. “You? A hero? Holy shit, that’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said.”

“I'm insulted.”

“Besides, you hate pink. You said it yourself.”

Feinberg clicks his tongue, eyes still glued to his phone screen. “True.”

“But someone did thank him for curing them,” Couriway says. “So maybe his power is related to that. That’s hardly a heroic power. I wonder why he wouldn’t just work as a healer?”

“Maybe he’s not a hero,” Feinberg says before his brain can catch up. He sucks in a breath, hoping Couriway doesn’t notice his unease.

“I guess it’s possible, but it doesn’t make sense.”  Thankfully, Couriway doesn’t look up from his feet as he thinks aloud. “Why would he be out in broad daylight if he were some kind of underground secret agent?”

“I dunno,” Feinberg admits. It is a good question. “Maybe he’s not a hero or a villain. A secret third thing.”

When Couriway doesn’t continue the banter, Feinberg looks up from his phone just in time to catch the TV remote en route to break his nose.

“Put on Survivor. I'm ordering takeout.”

“Mkay,” Feinberg hums, getting to his feet. “I gotta take a piss first.”

Feinberg sets the remote on the table and crosses the living room to the bathroom right off the hallway. He kicks the door closed behind him, as is customary in his apartment, and leans against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He threads his hand through his mass of curls, grimacing as sweat and oil quickly cling to his skin. He shakes his head, turning, when something makes his heart skip a beat.

He runs his hand through his hair again, this time curling his finger around one strand near his hairline, which is perfectly normal, except for one tiny,  easily-identifiable problem.

It’s bright pink.

“What the fuck?”

Chapter Text

Feinberg clicks on his bank account. He knows he’s not going to like what he sees, but he still groans when he sees his balance.

A whopping forty-five dollars. 

That’s not even a tenth of his half of the rent. Not even a fiftieth.

Feinberg thought moving to the shitty side of town would somewhat solve his financial crises, but it seems he needs more than that. 

Feinberg pushes his chair away from his desk, carding a hand through his hair.

Feinberg thought about getting a job, but ever since he found out his roommate was a pro hero—which, admittedly, wasn’t a hard conclusion to make—he couldn’t stop thinking about what he could do with his power.

Feinberg is not cut out to be a hero healer in one of the high-end hospitals downtown. The bright lights give him a headache and sick people are gross. 

Most importantly, he doesn’t want to be tied down. Feinberg wants to be able to help people no matter who they are or what side of the hero-villain line they fall on.

Heroes are too flippant about leaving so-called villains to die. 

In high school, everyone in Feinberg’s class wanted to be a hero. Except for Feinberg, of course. 

He had been considered powerless for most of his childhood until he rescued an injured dog from the middle of the street and miraculously mended the poor thing’s broken bones. 

That night, under the flickering light of a street lamp, Feinberg stared at his hands, in awe of what they could do. 

Feinberg didn’t know something like that was possible. Every time Feinberg saw news stories about heroes it was always about how the pros fought so bravely to protect the city from the bad guys. 

Feinberg never saw the logic in fighting fire with fire. At times, the heroes caused more destruction than the criminals did, but it was swept under the rug every time.

Still, everyone wanted to be just like the pro heroes. Feinberg’s classmates would remark about their hatred for school and how they would much rather be fighting bad guys instead of doing algebra.

Feinberg would frown and mutter something about how everyone can’t out there beating people to near death.

Every time Feinberg would look at his hands and wonder, in the wake of all the violence, who’s going to clean it up?

Who’s going to repair the power lines downed by the flying hero too focused on catching up with a criminal? Who’s going to repaint the lines on the road when someone rips open the street with an earthquake?

Who, when the villains are beaten and bloodied into submission, is going to make sure they don’t die before they can be interrogated? 

When will society realize that no life is greater than another? One misstep, and the glamorous pro hero would end up just like the people they toss in jail.

Maybe, when your power has never been a weapon, when your power saves lives instead of taking them, you see your responsibility as a hero a little differently.

“Fein? Hello?”

Feinberg jumps in his chair, his head snapping in the direction of his doorway, where Couriway stands, dressed in the purple dress shirt he wears to work.

“Couri, you scared me,” Feinberg mutters, calming his racing heartbeat with a steady exhale. 

“I knocked like, five times, doofus,” Couriway responds with a roll of his eyes. “You were staring at your shoes like they owe you money.”

Feinberg knows where this is going. He braces himself to be lectured.

“Speaking of which.” Couriway strides into Feinberg’s room, taking a seat on his bed. “You still owe me last month’s rent. And this month’s rent, too, actually.”

Feinberg frowns. “I didn’t say you could come in.”

“I’ll leave you alone when you give me my money,” Couriway says, his eyebrows raised.

“You know I’m working on it,” Feinberg offers lamely.

For what it’s worth, Feinberg isn’t lying. He has been working on it. It’s just that work isn’t exactly falling into his lap these days, and he’s been trying to play it safer since his bizarre encounter with Poundcake.

“Feinberg.” Couriway’s voice softens.

Feinberg recoils, making a face. “Ew, get that pity out of your tone, I hate it.”

Couriway scoffs. “My bad for worrying about you. It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Skies, you’re so fuckin’ dramatic.” Feinberg uncrosses his legs, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. “I told you I’ll get it to you by next week.”

“You said that last week, too,” Couriway points out, peering at Feinberg over his glasses. “Look, I’m not trying to pressure you, but I really can’t afford to get kicked out.”

Feinberg’s stomach twists. “I’m not letting you get kicked out.”

Couriway laughs. “Like you have any control over that, broke bitch.”

“I’m trying my best,” Feinberg grumbles.

Couriway shrugs. “Have you considered trying harder?”

Feinberg stands abruptly, his chair rolling backward and hitting the desk behind him with a loud thunk.

“ You—“ Recognizing his rising frustration, Feinberg struggles to keep his voice level. “You have no idea what kind of shit I’ve gone through for you.”

Couriway is unfazed by Feinberg’s sudden outburst. He crosses his arms. “You? All you do is sit around here.”

“That is so not true,” Feinberg argues. “I fuckin’ broke my ankle the other day trying to leave this awful building—“

Feinberg pauses. “So I could, uh, go to an interview.”

Sweat begins to bead on Feinberg’s forehead as Couriway’s gaze flicks down to Feinberg’s feet.

“You broke your ankle?” He asks, bewildered. “It doesn’t look broken to me.”

“It’s, uh, a figure of speech,” Feinberg lies, seriously reconsidering his life choices.

“Really weird figure of speech you got there,” Couriway says, his judicious stare burning into Feinberg. 

Feinberg feels like an amoeba under a microscope when Couriway looks at him like this, all silent and contemplative.

Finally, Couriway sighs. “Look, all I’m saying is if I can’t make rent this month, I’m going to have to find another roommate.”

For some reason, Feinberg’s heart sinks.

Scowling at Couriway, Feinberg tries his best to keep his tone lighthearted. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Couriway bats his eyelashes. “I would, if you give me no choice.”

Feinberg’s throat aches, and this time, he can’t quite hide his hurt. “You’d really do that to me?”

Couriway doesn’t seem to notice. “Well, yeah. You’re not special, Feinberg. There are plenty of people who’d be willing to split the bills with me.”

Ouch. Feinberg isn’t sensitive by any means, but does he really mean so little to Couriway? Is Feinberg that expendable?

Feinberg stares at Couriway, hoping his roommate can’t see the reflection of his heart shattering in his eyes.

Swallowing, Feinberg turns to the open doorway. “Fine.”

Stiffly, Feinberg leaves his room. As he descends the stairs, he hears Couriway call from upstairs.

“Fein, wait! I— I didn’t mean it like that! Where are you going?”

“Out,” Feinberg answers, scooping his backpack from the floor and throwing open the front door. “Don’t worry. I won’t come back until I’ve got your money.”

Slamming the door behind him, Feinberg races out the maintenance exit, down the concrete stairwell, and out through the empty lobby. 

Once Feinberg is on the sidewalk and the chilly night air fills his lungs, he slows down.

He has to prove to Couriway that he can pull his own weight. But how?

Feinberg has options, but none of them are very good. If things go wrong, he’d be in deeper trouble than missing rent.

Retrieving his phone from his pocket, Feinberg sighs. He types a phone number into the address bar, and sends a text message. 

Yo, I’m Fine. You contacted me about some injuries your squad sustained. Where do you want to meet?

All Feinberg receives in return is the location data of a street a few blocks away. Feinberg groans. 

Of course it’s the street that hasn’t had power for months. Why would a supervillain want to meet in a brightly lit area?

Feinberg ducks behind a closed store, setting his backpack on the pavement. He pulls his gloves, jacket, mask, and goggles from inside and puts them on.

Feinberg makes sure his voice modulator is functioning before zipping his bag closed and throwing it over his shoulder.

Feinberg double and triple checks the address when he arrives. It’s the right one.

Feinberg starts to sweat beneath his heavy coat. A sense of unease weighs on his spine, growing stronger each second he’s alone in a dead-end backstreet with only a dumpster for possible cover.

“Fine,” a low voice says. “What changed your mind?”

Feinberg snaps his head in the direction of the voice, squinting into the darkness. “What's it to you, Fruitberries?”

Even with his night vision goggles, Feinberg can barely see the silhouette of a tall, slim figure at the end of the street.

“Just covering my bases,” Fruitberries says, running circles around Feinberg like usual. 

Feinberg has never done business with this guy before, and for good reason. The most obvious reason is that Fruitberries is a renowned supervillain. A reason less obvious to anyone who’s never had the pleasure of speaking to the villain is that he’s remarkably vague. 

Sure, being secretive is kind of a criminal’s whole bread and butter, but Feinberg was always wary of the way Fruitberries would swing between saying one thing in one moment, and in the next something completely contradictory.

Fruit, as he is often called, has a peculiar modus operandi that gives Feinberg the creeps. Fruit plays mind games with everyone like it’s fun for him. He enjoys leading victims into traps of their own design.

Feinberg considers himself to be plenty smart, but even he can’t quite comprehend Fruitberries’s motives. Without a clear vision of his motives, Feinberg is, well, left in the dark.

“Would you believe me if I told you it’s because I’m looking to get into the villainy business?” Feinberg asks, trying his best to be nonchalant.

“You?” Fruitberries snorts. “With your… No offense but I’d hardly call your gimmick a power.”

“You can’t build a team of pure offenders,” Feinberg replies, shrugging. “Why’d you put in a request if you don’t believe in my abilities?”

“I didn’t say that,” Fruitberries muses, clearly enjoying the banter.

Feinberg rolls his eyes beneath his goggles. “Right. What do you need from me?”

“I heard you can work miracles,” Fruit says cooly. “Is that true?”

Feinberg laughs. “Who told you that?”

The dark figure draws closer. “Someone by the name of, like, Cupcake or something.”

“Poundcake,” Feinberg mutters under his breath. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Fruit returns a laugh of his own, but it carries no humor. “Doesn’t he? You cured his heart condition.”

“You’re lying.” Feinberg thinks back to his encounter with Poundcake, how it felt to heal him, how it took a little extra effort to repair what should have been an ordinary wound.

Then the whole thing after. Feinberg still isn’t sure what happened there.

Fruitberries steps closer, and Feinberg can almost see his face. Feinberg expected Fruit to meet him in his usual attire, with many layers concealing his face, but he didn’t. Is it some sort of power play?

“You can ask him yourself If you’d like.” Fruit says. “It was a birth defect or something. Pinprick of a hole in one of those valve things.”

“I can’t heal birth defects,” Feinberg tells the supervillain, annoyed. “I can’t change people’s DNA. That’s impossible. Are you here just to waste my time?”

Finally, Fruitberries enters Feinberg’s view. Moonlight casts a menacing shadow on his scarred face. “What else would cause a hole in someone’s heart present from birth to spontaneously vanish?”

Fruit’s eyes are deceptively blank, like mirrors crafted to reflect Feinberg’s own emotions back at him.

“Liars can do that,” Feinberg says, watching Fruit carefully. “They can say whatever they want without evidence to prove it.”

“I told you, Fine. You can ask him yourself.” Fruit waves a gloved hand dismissively. Feinberg can see thorns peeking through the dark fabric.

Fruitberries has the unique power to summon prickled vines at his will. It’s unclear whether they are a part of him or some sort of familiar. The thorns can also break off and become stuck in clothing and skin, or they can be fired like projectiles. 

Feinberg can’t win against him in one-on-one combat, but Feinberg has a sneaking suspicion that Fruitberries doesn’t intend to kill him tonight. 

Fruit must have some sort of reason for bringing up Feinberg’s supposed miracle work. 

“To get to the point,” Fruit smiles crookedly. It would be endearing if the rest of him weren’t so… villain-y. “I want to recruit you. Join me.”

“Not a fucking chance,” Feinberg is quick to shoot down Fruit’s proposal. “You’d get me killed by day three, if not immediately.”

“Have some faith, Fine,” Fruit doesn’t seem as bothered by Feinberg’s rejection as Feinberg thought he would be. “You are extremely valuable to me. I won’t let you die.”

“Comforting,” Feinberg spits, growing tired of Fruit’s riddles. “If that’s all you came to say, you got your answer. I’m leaving.”

Feinberg steps forward to pass by Fruitberries, but a thorny mass of vines blocks his path.

“You think I’d take no for an answer?” Fruit’s voice is playful. 

Feinberg wants to vomit. He knew this was a terrible idea. “You should. Your only other option is to kill me.”

Fruit’s plant arm pushes Feinberg further back into the alley. “Why would I want to do that?”

Feinberg stumbles into the dumpster behind him, swearing.

“But before we go, I need you to do me a favor.”

To Feinberg’s surprise, another person appears from behind Fruitberries, dressed in relatively plain attire except for a strange blindfold tied around their eyes.

“Great,” Feinberg chirps without joy. “You’re kidnapping this other guy, too?”

“No, just you.” Fruit smiles again. It isn’t any less creepy the second time. “This is my friend, Tapl. He’s blind.”

Feinberg blinks.

It makes sense, at least. Tapl’s blindfold and the dark hair curling way past his forehead both suggest the idea that Tapl doesn’t care about his vision being obstructed.

“Okay?” Feinberg says. “My condolences?”

“Don’t play dumb, Fine. You’ll only make things worse for yourself.” Fruit nudges Tapl closer to Feinberg. “I want you to cure him.”

Feinberg’s eyebrows shoot up. “You think I can cure blindness?”

Fruit shrugs. “I know you can.”

“You claim to know a lot about how my power works for someone who isn’t me,” Feinberg mutters. “I have no reason to lie to you. I can’t cure birth defects and I can’t cure blindness.”

Fruit glances at Tapl, who hasn’t yet said a word. “Really? I suppose I won’t force you, but I will have to kill you. Can’t have anyone running around knowing what me and Tapl look like.”

Feinberg’s breath catches in his throat. 

Fruit’s trying to call his bluff.

Normally, Feinberg has no trouble dealing with people trying to mind game him, but Feinberg isn’t bluffing, which puts him in an unwinnable situation. 

Feinberg can’t run, he can’t fight, and he can’t surrender. All of which result in the same fate: Feinberg’s untimely demise.

Feinberg can, however, buy time. Time to think. Time to figure something out. There must be a way out.

“Wait, let me at least show you how my power actually works.” Feinberg is glad Fruit can’t see his nervous smile beneath his mask.

Fruitberries is silent for a moment before he clicks his tongue. “Like a demonstration? A live performance from the Fine?

“Yeah,” Feinberg answers, his spine straightening. He isn’t sure if Fruit is toying with him again. 

Fruitberries hums. “Okay. What do I have to do?”

“Ok, well…” Feinberg’s eyes dart over Fruit’s figure, which is mostly obscured in black fabric, except for part of his forearm. Feinberg can only assume that’s where he summons his vines from. 

Feinberg takes a breath. This has to work. “Has anything been bothering you lately? Any, uhm, aches or pains?” 

Fruit doesn’t say anything. He only watches Feinberg with calculating eyes, as if trying to figure out Feinberg’s angle.

“He’s been complaining about his shoulder for ages,” Tapl pipes up, nearly startling Feinberg into next Wednesday.

“Harvey,” Fruit hisses, not unlike a snake.

“Please, anything to get him to shut up about it,” Tapl continues, unintimidated by Fruit’s glare that Feinberg now realizes he can’t see.

Feinberg takes the opportunity before it disappears. “All you have to do is give me your arm,” Feinberg says. “I promise I won’t try anything, ‘cause you’d just kill me, and I’m not that stupid.”

Fruit smirks subtly. “Is this a bargain for your life, Fine?”

Feinberg shrugs. “Do you accept?”

Fruit glances at his sidekick for a moment before extending his arm to Feinberg. “Impress me.”

Feinberg swallows, a vain attempt at clearing the lump in his throat. He removes his glove from his right hand, and after a moment of staring at Fruit’s skin, waiting for spikes to pop up and skewer him, Feinberg reaches out and takes Fruit’s arm.

Feinberg can get better precision if he closes his eyes, but he can’t allow Fruitberries any more advantages. He squints, searching Fruit’s nervous system for the source of his pain. 

To Feinberg’s surprise, Tapl wasn’t lying. There is a small fracture in Fruit’s shoulder. It’s nowhere near big enough to do anything spectacular, though.

But Fruitberries doesn’t need to know that.

Feinberg feigns surprise, letting go of Fruit’s arm. “You—“ he sputters, channeling his months of experience lying to his roommate. “Your shoulder is broken.”

Fruitberries doesn’t look fazed. “Is that right?”

“Well,” Feinberg says, wracking his brain. “It was broken, but it healed wrong. It looks like your humeral head suffered most of the damage, but the break extended diagonally through the bottom of the surgical neck, uh, but instead of the lesser tubercle mending itself, it moved up and Frankenstein’d itself to the greater tubercle.”

Fruitberries raises an eyebrow, as if he didn’t expect Feinberg to know the names of bones.

Truthfully, Feinberg could have made up anything that sounded close to their names, but he couldn't take that chance.

“What on Earth does that mean?” Tapl asks, and Feinberg gets the eerie feeling that Tapl is staring at him.

Feinberg takes a deep breath. “The bone split in half, and instead of healing straight on, it did a little electric slide to the right and healed like mismatched tetris blocks.”

Fruit rolls his shoulder, as if verifying Feinberg’s claim. “How do you intend to fix that?”

Feinberg takes a step toward Fruit, a test. “A doctor would break it again and then put pins in the bone pieces so they don’t move around, and then you’d have to wait for it to heal right.”

Fruit doesn’t back up, but he doesn’t push Feinberg away either. “Break it again?”

“Yes,” Feinberg answers, trying to sound as professional as possible. “That’s the only way to put the bones back where they’re supposed to be.”

Fruit tilts his head. “What would you do, Fine?”

“I’d have to break it, too,” Feinberg deadpans. “But you wouldn’t have to wait for it to heal on its own.”

“You?” Fruit laughs lightly. It’s clear he’s not taking Feinberg seriously. “You can break a bone in half? With your bare hands?”

Feinberg shrugs. “It’s easier to break on a previous fracture, if you know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah, I’m not convinced someone with your physique can pull that off. But nice try.”

Feinberg smirks beneath his mask. “You want to bet?”

“Confident, are we?” Fruit teases. “No, I'm afraid I’m not in the mood to have my bones broken.”

“You won’t feel a thing,” Feinberg says sweetly, savoring the way Fruit’s eyes snap back to him when his tone changes. “I can block your nerves. Better than any anesthetic on the market.”

“You’re shitting me,” Fruit giggles, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. “You’re serious?”

Feinberg’s smirk widens. “As a heart attack.”

“Okay, miracle doctor. Go for it.” Fruit rolls up his sleeve, allowing Feinberg access to his shoulder.

Feinberg steels his expression, removing his other glove and tucking them both under his arm.

Of course, Feinberg was completely bluffing about the fracture and malunion, so there’s no way he can snap Fruit’s humerus in half, but he has a way around that.

Because he can prevent nerves from sending signals to the brain, Fruit won’t feel anything Feinberg does. It only has to look like Feinberg breaks the bone, which is why Feinberg chose the top of Fruit’s humerus as the location of his trick.

Feinberg places one hand on the top of Fruit’s shoulder, and the other at his elbow.

Feinberg’s fingertips crackle with the intensity of his power, which isn’t something that has happened before. Feinberg doesn’t have time to think about that, so he pretends like nothing is out of the ordinary.

First, Feinberg blocks the nerves in Fruit’s arm. He glances at Fruit’s face, looking for a reaction. Fruit just nods at Feinberg, giving him the go-ahead. 

Next, Feinberg heals the tiny fracture in Fruit’s humerus. He doesn’t need anything to make his plan more complicated.

“Brace yourself,” Feinberg says, sliding his hand up Fruit’s arm so both of his hands are holding Fruit’s upper arm in place, one in the front and one in the back.

Exhaling quietly, Feinberg grips Fruit’s upper arm, and twists it as hard as he can, careful not to tear any muscle or harm the clavicle. 

As expected, Fruit’s shoulder dislocates with a convincing crack from Feinberg’s knuckles.

It’s only a partial dislocation, as completely ripping Fruit’s shoulder out of its socket is unnecessary.

Feinberg hears Tapl suck in a breath beside him.

“Don’t worry,” Feinberg assures Tapl, who is undoubtedly more concerned than Fruit. “I’m a professional.”

Pretending to concentrate, Feinberg presses the ball of his hand to the side of Fruit’s shoulder, and slots the humerus back in place.

“Don’t move, or this could end exactly how it started,” Feinberg tells Fruit, a sharpness to his voice that wasn’t there before. 

Fruit doesn’t answer, but Feinberg didn’t expect one. 

Feinberg waits a few seconds as he pretends to heal the fake fracture he didn’t create, and then, cautiously, he lets go of Fruit’s arm.

“It’ll take a while for your brain to get the memo that your nerves are back online.” Feinberg watches Fruit roll his sleeve back down. “You’ll still feel some pain, but it’ll go away. I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle.”

“That’s amazing,” Tapl says, expectedly more expressive than his companion.

It seems Feinberg’s bluff worked. 

More importantly, Feinberg learned something about Fruit with the ample time he had to survey Fruit with his power.

First, Fruit’s vines are an extension of his body, much like Couriway’s wings. 

Second, Fruit’s heart was beating abnormally fast. His breath was shallow, too, as if he were trying not to be heard.

This can only mean one thing: Fruitberries is afraid of Feinberg. Specifically, what Feinberg can do.

In this situation, Fruit has two options. In order to neutralize the threat Feinberg poses, he must either recruit or kill Feinberg.

Feinberg has made it clear he isn’t going to go with Fruit willingly, and trying to take Feinberg by force is far too risky for a meticulous man like Fruit. He doesn’t know what Feinberg can do, after all.

This leaves Fruitberries with one logical choice.

Usually, this would be curtains for Feinberg. He ruled out fighting a while ago for obvious reasons, but Fruit doesn’t need to know that Feinberg has no real offensive abilities. Thanks to Feinberg’s demonstration, Fruit knows enough to make the reasonable decision of avoiding direct contact with Feinberg.

To come out of this alive, Feinberg has to make killing him more trouble than it’s worth. 

Feinberg’s plan is based on a simple premise: the longer Fruit stays here, the more he puts himself at risk of being caught.

Feinberg can’t let his identity be exposed either, which makes this complicated.

“You have some neat tricks.” Fruit rolls his shoulder, testing its mobility. “But if you can’t do as I ask, it’s not enough.”

Fruit wastes no time. He gestures for Tapl to stand back before he takes a swing at Feinberg with his weird vine tentacle.

Feinberg ducks, and Fruit’s thorny arm collides with the dumpster instead, resulting in a loud clang.

Feinberg watches Fruit flinch for half a second before he sends another mass of vines hurtling toward Feinberg.

The narrow alley does Feinberg no favors, offering him nowhere to go to avoid Fruit’s attack. He darts forward, attempting to rush past Fruit while the supervillain is distracted, but Fruit’s vines catch up with Feinberg and snatch his limbs, throwing Feinberg against the dumpster.

Feinberg’s head collides with the steel body of the dumpster so hard that starbursts explode beneath his eyelids and Feinberg almost gags from the pain, coughing.

The rest of Feinberg’s body isn’t in any better shape. He definitely broke something, though which part of him is anybody’s guess. 

The bitter tang of blood fills Feinberg’s mouth. He must have bitten his tongue when Fruit slammed him against the dumpster like a ragdoll.

Fruit stands over Feinberg, his jagged grin now wide and toothy. “So, are you ready to cure my friend now?”

Feinberg spits blood at Fruit’s feet. He hopes it makes him look tough, but his trembling voice instantly negates any street cred he has. “I told you I can’t.”

“That is the wrong answer,” Fruit says with a shrill giggle. “Let’s see… How about we do an experiment? I’ll almost kill you, and if you manage to survive with that power of yours, I’ll come find you later.”

Feinberg glares at Fruit from beneath his goggles. Fruit must know there’s no way Feinberg can use his power in this condition. It would only kill him faster. Fruit is just toying with Feinberg for his own sick amusement.

Unable to move out of the way, Feinberg is helpless to stop Fruit’s final attack, a quick but powerful slash to Feinberg’s stomach. 

Feinberg bites the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. He can feel blood soaking his glove as it gushes from between his fingers when he instinctively presses his hand to the source of the newfound searing pain in his abdomen. Tears spring to Feinberg’s eyes, though he can hardly feel his face.

“Until we meet again, Fine.” Fruit turns with a flourish, stalking out of the alley, Tapl in tow.

Feinberg tries to take a deep breath, but the pain in his chest is unbearable. He needs to get out of here, but he can’t think straight, his whole body is in agony, and he really wants to take a nap right now.

If Feinberg closes his eyes, there’s a good chance he’ll never open them again. Feinberg has never been injured this bad before, but he knows lethal wounds when he feels them.

One thing is for certain: Feinberg can’t get out of here on his own.

Muttering a barely coherent string of swears, Feinberg grasps the strap of his bag with the only arm he can move and yanks his bag free from where it was squished between Feinberg and the dumpster.

Dropping the bag in his lap with another curse, Feinberg uses his good arm to fish through his belongings and locate his phone. He struggles to use the touch screen through all the blood staining his gloves, but eventually he manages to find Reign’s contact. 

Feinberg taps the call button. The phone rings once, then twice, then thrice, until it eventually stops and Reign’s voicemail plays.

Feinberg calls a few times, but Reign never picks up. Quickly running out of options and time, Feinberg presses the screen of his phone to activate spoken commands.

Setting his phone on the pavement, Feinberg raises a trembling hand to switch off his voice modulator.

Gathering his strength, Feinberg chokes out, “call Couriway.”

Couriway picks up before the first ring. Feinberg isn’t sure if he’s thankful or not.

“Fein? Look, dude, I’m really sorry—“

“Shut up,” Feinberg interrupts roughly, and Couriway goes silent. 

Feinberg is trying to figure out how to explain what happened when Couriway speaks again, quieter. 

“Fein? Is everything okay?”

“No,” Feinberg decides to say. “No, shit is really bad.”

“Where are you? I’m on my way.” Couriway must have heard the pain in Feinberg’s voice because Feinberg can hear the squeak of the apartment doors’ hinges through the receiver.

“I know you track my phone,” Feinberg says, and he would have laughed if he had the energy. “Hurry. Please.”

Feinberg hangs up, and his phone immediately rings again as Couriway tries to call him back. Feinberg ignores it, taking a moment to reflect on his life choices before he reaches up and pulls his goggles from his head, throwing them in his bag. He does the same with his mask. 

Now comes the hardest part: Feinberg’s jacket. 

Slowly, Feinberg unzips the front zipper, sucking in a sharp breath as he reaches the sizable gash in his jacket left by Fruit’s attack. Fruit even managed to rip the zipper track from the fabric, making Feinberg’s jacket into a strange kind of crop top.

Feinberg pulls his good arm free first, then he starts the arduous process of peeling the sleeve away from the arm he can barely feel, throbbing dully. 

After an eternity of agony, Feinberg eventually wriggles free from his hoodie. He rips his gloves off, the first with his functional hand and the second with his teeth.

Feinberg kicks his bag into a shadowy corner of the alley. He can’t allow Couriway to see him with his gear.

Gathering the sleeve of his jacket and both gloves in his fingers, Feinberg uses the last embers of strength left in his body to throw the whole mass of bloody fabric over his head and into the open dumpster behind him.

If he gets out of this alive, Feinberg can buy new equipment.

Couriway’s footsteps are unmistakable, rousing Feinberg from his half-unconscious stupor, but when Feinberg looks up, he doesn’t see Couriway.

“Oh, good grief, Feinberg,” Icarus whispers, his aviator goggles pushed up against his forehead to make room for his glasses. 

Feinberg pretends not to notice that a hero he’s never met somehow knows his name.

Icarus approaches Feinberg in a hurry, crouching in front of Feinberg. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

“Some villain,” Feinberg mutters, too exhausted to care about crafting a convincing cover story. “Confused me for one of his allies and promptly tried to kill me when he realized his mistake.”

It’s not exactly the truth, but it’s not a lie either.

“I see.” Icarus reaches for Feinberg, but Feinberg bolts upright, even as a spike of pain in his stomach protests.

“Woah, hey,” Feinberg’s voice is sharp, if a little unsteady. “Stranger danger. Who are you? I thought I called my,” a labored breath. “My roommate.”

Icarus shoots Feinberg a confused glance for half a second, as if to say, I am your roommate.

“Right, your roommate called me.” Icarus quickly snaps out of his initial shock, adopting his hero persona. “I’m a pro hero, I’m here to help—“

“Ah, I’m just kidding,” Feinberg grits out a smirk. “I know you, Icarus. I didn’t expect to meet my favorite hero like this.”

Icarus is staring at Feinberg again, deer-in-headlights style. “Sorry, this is just really weird. You’ve lost so…” Icarus’s eyes flick down to Feinberg’s wound, creasing at the corners. “So much blood. Your roommate told me you were tough, but I didn’t expect you to be conscious.”

Feinberg tries to ignore the implications of Icarus’s words. “It’s the pain,” he remarks as casually as a dying man can. “Causes adrenaline. Keeps the brain awake. Do they not teach you this stuff?”

“I know that,” Icarus huffs rather unprofessionally. It reminds Feinberg of their dinner table bickering. “But you definitely can’t stand. I’m going to need you to let me carry you.”

Icarus is right. Feinberg’s lucidity is quickly fading, but he’d rather not have to explain why he can’t be healed by someone else’s power to a pro hero, much less his roommate.

“No can do, mister Icarus.” Feinberg subdues a cough. “I cannot afford a personal airlift to that fancy hero hospital of yours.”

“Sir, you’re dying.” Icarus says dumbly. “Is saving money worth your life?”

Feinberg raises an eyebrow. It’s all he has to say.

Icarus shakes his head. “Fine. I can take you to a civil hospital but we have to go now.”

“Well, if Couri trusted you…” Feinberg’s eyelids are awfully heavy. The pain in his stomach has long since dulled to a warm pricking sensation.

Recognizing that he’s about to pass out, Feinberg reaches up, grabbing Icarus’s wrist. “Please, no healers.” Feinberg’s eyes fall shut. He tries in vain to pry them open, but they won’t budge. “I can’t… afford—“

“Feinberg?” Couriway cuts in, panicked. “Feinberg, stay with me, come on.”

I’m trying, dumbass, Feinberg thinks vaguely as he feels himself being lifted from the ground, then jostled as Icarus situates Feinberg in his arms.

In his haze, an idea occurs to Feinberg. A trick he used in college to keep himself awake during his many all-nighters. 

His hands are the weight of cinder blocks, but Feinberg manages to lift his good arm and press his palm to his neck, sensing his dropping pulse beneath his skin.

Icarus makes a surprised noise, but he doesn’t say anything.

As the wind picks up, accompanied by the rhythmic flapping of wings, Feinberg has no strength left to gather. Even so, he wills his power to his free hand, and then through his fingertips, creating a closed circuit in a meager attempt at supporting his struggling heartbeat.

Then, Feinberg can’t hold on anymore. The pull of sleep finally consumes him.

Couriway is sitting on the couch, staring blankly at his messages with Feinberg when his roommate suddenly calls him.

Couriway picks up immediately, uncaring of how strange he may seem. “Fein?” He says, still unsure of what else to say. “Look, dude, I’m really sorry—“

“Shut up,” Feinberg’s voice crackles from the receiver. It’s definitely his voice, but it sounds so unlike him. 

Panic begins to rise in Couriway’s chest. Is Feinberg mad at him? Did something else happen? Skies, what if he’s hurt?

Swallowing his pride, Couriway softens his voice. “Fein? Is everything okay?”

The line is silent for a moment, and Couriway glances at his phone to make sure Feinberg is still on the other end.

“No,” Feinberg answers, breathless. “No, shit is really bad.”

Okay, Couriway, don’t panic. Feinberg only called him in the middle of the night with the vocal tone of a lifelong smoker and cryptically asked for his help after storming out of the apartment hours earlier.

Oh, sweet sardines, Feinberg is in deep trouble. Couriway isn’t sure what, but like Feinberg said, it’s really bad.

Taking a breath, Couriway stands and crosses the living room, opening the front door before realizing he doesn’t know where he’s going. “Where are you?” Couriway taps at his phone, finding the app he uses to track Feinberg’s location. “I’m on my way.”

“I know you track my phone,” Feinberg says, clever as always. “Hurry. Please.”

The line goes dead. Frantically, Couriway calls Feinberg again and again, but he doesn’t pick up. The fact that the call ended, though, is proof Feinberg hung up himself. He’s still alive. He’s still breathing. He can still use his phone.

Couriway’s next thought is to get in his car and drive towards Feinberg’s location as quickly as possible, but something tells Couriway he needs a little more speed.

Couriway’s heartbeat is loud in his ears as he quickly gathers the parts of his hero costume. He dons his jacket and aviator cap. He doesn’t have time to put his contacts in, so he leaves his goggles on his forehead. He pockets his phone, races out the door and into the maintenance stairwell.

Couriway takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches the door to the building’s roof. He pushes the door open with his shoulder and stumbles onto the rooftop.

Couriway summons his wings, his phantom feathers fluttering in the midnight air.

Taking a shallow breath, Couriway trots over to the edge of the roof, and jumps off.

The wind catches Couriway’s wings immediately, sending him soaring into the night sky. The stars are almost pretty if Couriway doesn’t imagine the light draining from his roommate’s eyes every time they twinkle in his peripheral vision.

Get it together, Icarus, Couriway thinks. You’re a hero. You save people. You’ll save Feinberg, too. He won’t even know it was you.

Couriway spots the street Feinberg’s phone pinged from far below him, but it’s too dark to see anything. He swoops in a downward arc, landing on a nearby rooftop. 

Couriway squints at the dark alley. What on Earth is Feinberg doing there?

Hopping off the roof, Couriway uses his wings to break his fall as his feet touch the ground. Couriway retracts his wings and starts running. He turns the corner and starts down the ominous crawl-space between buildings, and for a moment he thinks he may be in the wrong place, before he catches sight of a slumped figure at the far end of the street.

Drawing closer, Couriway’s stomach churns as his worst fears become reality before his eyes.

Feinberg, Couriway’s friend and roommate, sits unmoving against a dumpster in a tiny, dark backstreet, covered in blood.

Couriway’s breathing starts to shudder as words slip from his lips without any forethought.

“Oh, good grief, Feinberg,” Couriway mutters, his gaze sweeping over Feinberg’s closed eyes, the mess of blood near his stomach, his phone, the screen stained with bloody fingerprints, back to the incomprehensible injury at Feinberg’s waist, then to his eyes, pale blue and staring at Couriway with muddled confusion.

Electricity sparking in his veins, Couriway rushes toward Feinberg, kneeling next to him. “What happened?” He sputters, still in disbelief. “Who did this to you?”

“Some villain,” Feinberg mutters through clenched teeth. “Confused me for one of his allies and promptly tried to kill me when he realized his mistake.”

A villian? How?

“I see,” Couriway says, deciding it’s not his job to interrogate citizens before reaching for Feinberg’s shoulder.

“Woah, hey,” Feinberg’s voice is unmistakably his, but it’s unlike anything Couriway has heard come out of his roommates mouth, rough and labored. “Stranger danger. Who are you? I thought I called my…” Feinberg punctuates his words with a harsh gasp. “My roommate.”

Couriway frowns at Feinberg. Is Feinberg that out of it? Why doesn’t Feinberg recognize him?

Then Couriway remembers that right now, he’s Icarus, not Couriway, and things make sense again.

“Right, your roommate called me.” Couriway lies. “I’m a pro hero, I’m here to help—“

“Ah, I’m just kidding,” Feinberg smirks. “I know you, Icarus. I didn’t expect to meet my favorite hero like this.”

Couriway blinks. This whole situation feels like a fever dream. He’s Feinberg’s favorite hero? How is Feinberg finding humor in this state? Is this not the first time Couriway’s roommate has nearly bled out in an alley?

“Sorry, this is just really weird. You’ve lost so…” Couriway glances down at Feinberg’s wound, still too dark to understand what happened. “So much blood. Your roommate told me you were tough, but I didn’t expect you to be conscious.”

“It’s the pain,” Feinberg deadpans, evidently less shaken up than Couriway is. “Causes adrenaline. Keeps the brain awake. Do they not teach you this stuff?”

“I know that,” Couriway tells him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “But you definitely can’t stand. I’m going to need you to let me carry you.”

“No can do, mister Icarus.” Feinberg says, his chest bouncing as he clamps down a cough. “I cannot afford a personal airlift to that fancy hero hospital of yours.”

Ignoring the guilt that pangs beneath Couriway’s sternum, he keeps his professional demeanor. “Sir, you’re dying.” Couriway tells Feinberg, though he’s plenty aware already. “Is saving money worth your life?”

Feinberg raises an eyebrow, like he does every time Couriway asks him a dumb question.

Couriway shakes his head. He knows he can’t win an argument with Feinberg, nor does he have the time to bicker. “Fine. I can take you to a civil hospital but we have to go now.”

“Well, if Couri trusted you…” Feinberg’s words slow to a halt, his usually sharp gaze unfocusing.

To Couriway’s surprise, Feinberg grabs Couriway’s wrist. “Please, no healers.” Feinberg’s eyes flutter shut “I can’t… afford—“

White-hot adrenaline pours into Couriway’s veins. Feinberg’s act was so convincing he managed to keep Couriway calm until now.

Now that Feinberg is no longer lightening the mood with his blunt sense of humor, the panic Couriway was subduing comes flooding back in full force.

“Feinberg?” Couriway stammers. “Feinberg, stay with me, come on.”

Okay, Couriway, calm down. Treat this like any other rescue. You don’t know this man, he doesn’t know you, you’re just doing your job.

Springing into action, Couriway slides one arm under Feinberg’s knees and the other beneath his back, lifting Feinberg from the ground with little struggle despite how much taller Feinberg is. 

Couriway summons his wings for the second time tonight, and practically leaps into the sky. 

At least Couriway knows the locations of every hospital in the city. Part of him wants to take Feinberg to a hero hospital anyway, just to make sure he gets the best care, but as his friend, Couriway must respect Feinberg’s wishes.

Couriway is flapping his wings faster than he ever thought possible, his blood rushing in his ears when movement from below catches his attention. 

Couriway watches, his wing-strokes slowing as Feinberg’s hand snakes up from his lap to the side of his neck before going still once more.

Couriway isn’t sure what that’s all about, but it’s evidence that Feinberg isn’t dead yet, so it calms Couriway’s racing heartbeat, if only a little.

Couriway switches on his headset, little more than a tiny radio in his ear. 

“I found him,” Couriway tells his colleagues over the wind whistling past. “He said he was attacked by a villain, but other than that I don’t know anything. I’m taking him to the nearest civil hospital.”

“He was attacked by a villain and he wasn’t dead on arrival?” Nerdi’s voice crackles in Couriway’s ear. “Call me crazy, but that doesn’t leave room for many suspects.”

Trying to ignore the ache in his wings, Couriway mentally compiles a list of villains capable of mortally wounding someone—a good amount—and then eliminates the villains sane enough not to leave a victim alive.

Nerdi’s right. The list isn’t long.

Though Couriway hasn’t responded yet, Nerdi speaks again. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Couriway swallows, dread sinking in his gut. “Fruitberries? What would he want with my civilian roommate? Is he trying to draw me out?”

“I don’t know,” Nerdi replies. “But it fits his modus operandi. I’m assuming Feinberg isn’t conscious anymore?”

“No,” Couriway replies slowly, resisting the urge to glance down at his roommate. “And he’s not in great shape, but he’s alive.”

“Do you need backup at the hospital?”

Couriway frowns at the busy streets below. He didn’t notice that he made it downtown. “Why would I need backup at the hospital?”

“You’re really close to the situation, Couri,” Nerdi says sympathetically. “It might be better if you let someone else handle it.”

“I can’t,” Couriway replies all too quickly. “I don’t know why, but Fein requested that he not be seen by a healer, just a regular civilian doctor. I have to make sure that happens.”

Nerdi clicks his tongue. “Even though he was attacked by the city’s most dangerous supervillain?”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Couriway mutters, angling his wings to start his descent. “He said he couldn’t afford it, but I don’t think that’s all of it.”

Couriway’s sneakers hit the pavement with a surprising amount of force, nearly knocking him and Feinberg over. Acting quickly, Couriway flaps his wings to right himself and starts running down the street to the nearby hospital.

“I mean,” Couriway huffs between breaths. “If his life is on the line, why would he care about money? And he said I was his favorite hero! I thought he hated heroes.”

Couriway ignores the gasps of surrounding pedestrians as they gawk at the Winged Hero racing down the sidewalk with a bloody, unconscious man in his arms. 

Whispers of Icarus, what’s he doing here, and who is that float past as Couriway finally arrives at the front doors of the hospital's emergency room and nearly shatters the pristine glass when he kicks the door open.

Every head in the waiting room turns to look at Couriway, each face in varying degrees of shock.

Couriway hardly notices. Barely managing to remember protocol, Couriway musters his best professional hero voice. “This man needs help. He suffered severe lacerations to the chest and abdomen, unknown amount of blood loss, pulse spotty and dropping fast. Can someone please call a doctor?”

“Icarus,” the receptionist whispers, before nodding and picking up the phone. “Yes, just a minute.”

Nerdi hums in Couriway’s ear. “Hold on. I’ll be there soon.”

Chapter Text

“He could have died,” Couriway says for the eighth time today. “He could have died because I drove him away. He could have died thinking I didn’t care about him.”

“I told you to take time off,” Nerdi says tiredly from behind the reception desk, refusing to humor Couriway’s hysterics.

“I can’t.” Couriway paces across the small lobby, back and forth. “Work is the only thing that can take my mind off everything.”

Nerdi slumps over the counter, gazing at Couriway over the rims of his glasses. Bleach-blonde hair hangs in front of his eyes. “It’s not doing a very good job.”

Finally, Couriway halts in his tracks, turning to look at Nerdi. “Look, I’m sorry, but it’s not every day that your roommate gets attacked by a supervillain.”

Nerdi waves a hand lazily. “Hence why I’m trying to get you to go home. Being here is not helping, Couri.”

“I’m not going home,” Couriway says indignantly. “The only other place I could be is the hospital, but the doctors said he won’t wake up for a while, if he ever does, so I thought maybe I could work on the case—“

“Skies alive,” Nerdi swears, running a hand down his face. “I give up. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but that vigilante you’ve been tracking, Fine, recently made contact with a known ally of Fruitberries.”

Couriway’s heart jumps into his throat. His words come out stunted. “You’re kidding.”

Nerdi shakes his head. “So far we don’t have any evidence of collaboration between them, but it’s worth keeping an eye on.”

“Do you think he had something to do with the attack last night?” 

“It’s… possible,” Nerdi says slowly, watching Couriway with those dark, keen eyes of his. “But unlikely.”

“If he were there,” Couriway mutters, ignoring Nerdi when he rolls his eyes. “Maybe he could have kept Feinberg from getting hurt.”

“Couri, we don’t even know if this guy’s the real deal. We have a burner online handle and your eyewitness account. Have you seen him use his powers?”

“No,” Couriway answers, brow furrowing. “But he’s not going to reveal himself in broad daylight. We’d have to catch him off guard.”

“I wouldn’t focus too much on him, Couri.” Nerdi spins in his swivel chair. “He could be an agent hired by Fruitberries to act as a red herring. It’s clear by now that Fruitberries has painted a target on your back.” Nerdi clicks his tongue. “The sudden and obvious appearance of a vigilante no one has seen before can’t be unrelated to the craftiest supervillain in the metropolitan area.”

“So, you’re saying if I find this red herring, I could get some answers out of him.”

“About Feinberg?” Nerdi grabs the counter, halting his chair in place. “I’m pretty sure Fruitberries found out where you live and now he’s messing with you.”

“But that’s the whole reason I moved to the other side of town,” Couriway groans, resuming his frantic pacing. “I didn’t want to endanger the people I live with—nobody would expect a hero to live in that dump.”

“Calm down,” Nerdi says, ever so pragmatic. “That’s just one explanation. Feinberg told you that Fruitberries confused him for an ally of his, right? That may be exactly what happened. Occam’s razor and all that.”

“I don’t think that applies to the craftiest supervillain in the metropolitan area,” Couriway deadpans, making air quotes with his fingers.

“Have you slept, Couri?” Nerdi asks, derailing Couriway’s train of thought.

Couriway’s feet still again. Now that he thinks about it, Couriway’s heart rate hasn’t gone below eighty beats-per-minute since Feinberg called him… about sixteen hours ago.

“No,” Couriway admits, waiting for Nerdi to yell at him.

No such admonishment occurs. Only a soft sigh slips from Nerdi’s lips. “You really care about that guy.”

“Feinberg?” Couriway sputters, aghast. “Of course I care about him, he’s the closest friend I have!”

“Ouch,” Nerdi remarks, pouting. 

“That’s— not what I meant,” Couriway backpedals hastily. “Skies, this is the exact same thing that happened with Fein—“

“What did you say to him?” Nerdi interrupts, resuming his chair-spinning escapade. 

“Uh…” Couriway doesn’t want to remember, but he thinks back anyway, back through the sirens, the bustling streets, the blood, the phone call, the endless silence. “I told him he wasn’t special, and that I could split the bills with anyone.”

Nerdi cackles. “You said that to your best friend?”

“It’s not funny!” Couriway insists, but Nerdi’s laughter doesn’t quell.

“It’s a miracle he still called you after that,” Nerdi says, giggling. “If I were him, I would have bled out on the street as revenge.”

Couriway’s heartbeat slows to a standstill. “What?”

Nerdi places his foot on the counter, turning his chair to face Couriway. “If my best friend told me I wasn’t special to him, I would make him pay for that, personally. Sounds like Feinberg swallowed his pride. He’s a better man than me.”

For some reason, it never occurred to Couriway that Feinberg’s phone call was a deliberate decision. He frowns at his shoes, puzzled.

Why didn’t Feinberg call Reign? Or one of his colleagues? Or the police? Why did he place his trust in Couriway of all people?

The image of Feinberg, injured and alone, Couriway’s name on his phone screen, forms in Couriway’s mind. Couriway imagines Feinberg’s thoughts in that moment, remembering the last words Couriway said to him and still making the decision to request Couriway’s help.

Heat gathers at the corners of Couriway’s eyes. He whispers. “Why?”

“Icarus, for the skies above, listen to me,” Nerdi’s sharp voice cuts into Couriway’s thoughts.

Blinking the blurriness away, Couriway glances at Nerdi, who is now standing, his hands gripping the front counter.

Nerdi glares back, but as usual, his gaze holds no malice. “You got to him in time. You saved his life, you understand? He’s going to be okay.”

Couriway stares at Nerdi dumbly. “You don’t know that.”

“The worst part of the storm has already weathered,” Nerdi doesn’t break eye contact. “You were there for him when it mattered.”

“Icarus was there for him,” Couriway corrects. “Not me.”

“Is Icarus not you?” Nerdi circles around the counter, kicking his chair underneath. “Would Icarus have been there if Feinberg hadn’t called you?”

“No,” Couriway answers bitterly, shaking his head. “Not to him. Icarus is a different person to Feinberg.”

“And yet Icarus is still his favorite hero.” Nerdi approaches Couriway, brushing his knuckles against Couriway’s arm. “He trusts Icarus, and he trusts you.”

Couriway shrugs off Nerdi’s touch. “I need to find that guy.”

Nerdi folds his arms. “Who? Fine?”

“Poundcake,” Couriway responds, much to Nerdi’s chagrin.

Stepping to the side and catching Couriway’s gaze, Nerdi scrutinizes Couriway, unsure. “Why? He’s just a low-level criminal.”

Suddenly, under the weight of Nerdi’s stare, Couriway feels self-conscious about his judgement. “He could… I think he could help Feinberg.”

Nerdi’s eyes narrow. “By that, you mean he could help you find Fine, right? And then what?”

“I don’t know,” Couriway admits, exhausted. “His services may be cheaper than the kind you can find at a hero hospital.”

“This is about Feinberg’s request?” Nerdi shuts his eyes, his hands gathering his sleeves as he concentrates. Or maybe he’s trying not to yell at Couriway. “And you want to dishonor that because you feel guilty?” 

Couriway’s ears begin to burn. When did Nerdi get so good at reading him?

“No,” Couriway says, though he’s only being half-honest. “I just don’t want him to die. The doctors said he may not wake up. Like, ever. I can’t just stand around here and do nothing.”

“Couri, I don’t think some random untrained vigilante is Feinberg’s only option, much less the best one.” Nerdi is patient as ever, but Couriway can see his frustration seeping through the wrinkle in his brow. “Not to mention the massive risk you’d be taking employing a criminal and going against a patient’s wishes.”

“I’m not going to hire a criminal,” Couriway responds indignantly, even though that was his original plan. “I just want to get some insight. Maybe…” Couriway pauses, thinking. “Maybe Fine could shed some light on the situation. Maybe there’s something to do with healers that I’m missing.”

Nerdi sighs, shifting his weight. “And how would that help Feinberg? Or would it only help you?”

“Look, man, he said no healers but he didn’t say why.” Couriway shakes his head. “Okay, well, he did, but I don’t think that’s all of it. If I could find out why, then maybe I could figure out a compromise.”

Nerdi holds up a hand. “Alright, alright, I’ll help you track down Poundcake.”

Couriway opens his mouth, but before he can thank Nerdi, Nerdi speaks again, peering at Couriway over his glasses.

“But only because we’ve been trying to get intel on Fine anyway, got it? If you go sneaking around behind mine or the agency's backs, I’m not defending you at the disciplinary hearing.”

Couriway grins. “Thanks, man. I knew I could count on you.”

Ignoring Couriway’s teasing, Nerdi turns and picks up his bag from behind the reception counter. “What do you think about staying at my place tonight? I take it I’m correct in assuming you’d rather not be at home by yourself.”

Couriway stares at his friend. His plan was to stay out all night searching for clues on the whereabouts of Fruitberries or Poundcake, but Nerdi’s idea sounds much more practical. 

That, and Couriway isn’t sure how much longer he can be alone with his thoughts.

“I’d like that,” he says.

“I’ve been going to this local bar for a few weeks,” Nerdi says, fiddling with the buttons to adjust his car’s driver’s-side mirror. “Getting to know the regulars and stuff.”

“I didn’t take you for the bar-hopping type.” Couriway fastens his seatbelt, settling in the passenger seat of Nerdi’s two-door convertible. It smells like leather with a faint hint of floral perfume. It’s clear Nerdi takes good care of his car by way of keeping a spotless dashboard and streak-free windshield. Even his wipers are in pristine condition.

After turning the ignition and disabling the parking brake with a pump of his leg, Nerdi shoots Couriway a sideways glance. “I’m not. Poundcake and his friends hang out there. I only go to that part of town to do undercover stuff. Y’know, the stakeout I’m taking you on? I think it’s near your place, actually.”

Couriway turns to look at Nerdi. “How do you know where I live? I don’t recall ever inviting you over.”

Nerdi throws the car in reverse with a twist of the gearstick and backs out of the office parking lot. “I’m basically your manager.” Nerdi makes eye contact with Couriway as he glances over his shoulder. “You think I don’t have your address on file?”

“Right,” Couriway says, turning to peer out the passenger-side window.

“Anyway, sometimes—“ Tires screech as Nerdi flinches. “Sometimes I buy a round or two for the guy and his friends to gain trust and all that, and they basically adopted me into their circle. They’re so nice, Couri. I feel a little bad.”

Couriway watches the buildings and commuters fly by, flinching at the brightness of the streetlights. “You think Fine is nice, too?”

“Where’s that come from?” Nerdi chuckles lightly, though Couriway can detect a twinge of nervousness to his tone.

“I don’t know,” Couriway admits as the car rolls to a stop at an intersection. Couriway can feel Nerdi’s eyes shift from the road to him. “Just curious, I guess.”

“I think it’s just as likely as him being an asshole.” Nerdi’s stare burns holes in the side of Couriway’s face. “I don’t think being a criminal automatically makes you a bad person, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Couriway clicks his tongue fondly. “You’re starting to sound like my roommate.”

“Feinberg? Or do you have another stats guy I don’t know about?” Nerdi makes a rather sharp turn, and Couriway isn’t sure he didn’t do it on purpose to draw attention back to him.

To counter his sudden rightward momentum, Couriway turns to study the dashboard, refusing to look at Nerdi on his left. “Yeah. I told you he doesn’t like heroes, right? Part of that is because he thinks the difference between a hero and a villain is twenty-four hours.”

Nerdi silently ponders for a second, the intermittent blinking of his turn signal the only sound in the still air. “What the heck does that mean?”

Couriway laughs at Nerdi’s confusion. “I thought that at first too, but he explained it like… um, imagine, instead of being accepted by the agency, they denied your transfer request and your old boss went bankrupt. Suddenly you’re behind on rent and you can’t afford groceries and from there, you don’t have many options.”

Nerdi hums, considering. “That makes sense, but I still wouldn’t go around and start killing people.”

Finally, Couriway turns to look at Nerdi through the rearview mirror. “Do we only label people as villains if they kill others?”

“No, but they don’t have to kill people to hurt them. Sometimes the worst thing you can do is leave someone alive, you know?”

Couriway shudders, his mind wrought with thoughts of that supervillain, Fruitberries. He must have left Feinberg alive on purpose. Was it all to get Couriway’s attention, or is there more than meets the eye to the attack a day prior?

Why would Fruitberries leave Feinberg alive? Did he want Feinberg to lead him somewhere? Was it as Feinberg said, an accident? No, Fruitberries wouldn’t leave anyone alive if he didn’t need them for something.

Couriway forces the memories of last night out of his head. “Do we not hurt people, too?”

“What?” Nerdi’s eyes meet Couriway’s in the mirror. “No, I mean, not innocent people.”

“So when we hurt people, it’s justified because they did bad things?” 

Nerdi doesn’t say anything for an excruciating few seconds, his eyes flicking back to the road. Couriway begins to worry that Nerdi is plotting to throw him out the sunroof.

“Yeah, but it’s more nuanced than that.” Nerdi flexes his fingers on the steering wheel.

“That’s Feinberg’s point.” Couriway watches Nerdi almost speed past a stop sign, the car lurching to a halt abruptly. “The bad guys also think they’re good guys. In their eyes, their actions are justifiable because they’ve been hurt, too. Uh… Fein can probably explain it better than me.”

“I hope I get the chance to ask him about it,” Nerdi says softly. “He sounds like a cool guy.”

Couriway shakes his head, smirking. “You’re not going to change his mind about heroes. Trust me.”

Couriway doesn’t notice the car inch to a stop in the driveway of a swanky contemporary-style house until he hears Nerdi push the gearstick up and stomp the parking brake. 

Nerdi shuts off the engine, keys jingling between his fingers. “But he might change mine.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Couriway feigns outrage, all but kicking the passenger door open and stumbling out of Nerdi’s car. “You’re going to leave me if my roommate convinces you we all suck?”

Nerdi laughs heartily, nothing like his uneasy demeanor on the road. “No, idiot, I just think civilians can teach us a lot about our work.” Nerdi gestures to his car’s side mirrors. “They can see things we can’t. Cover our blind spots.”

Feinberg always held a look in his eyes like he could read Couriway’s every thought and feeling. He can’t, of course, and Couriway knows that, but sometimes Feinberg lets it slip that he knows more than he lets on, and it’s seriously freaky how accurate his ‘shots in the dark’ can sometimes be.

What Couriway wouldn’t do to see that calculating gaze again.

Couriway recalls a conversation the two of them had when Feinberg was on death’s doorstep, Couriway’s bleeding roommate speaking casually as if it were any other boring evening.

Sorry, this is just really weird. Couriway stuttered through his sentence, still shell-shocked at the state of his friend. You’ve lost so much blood. I didn’t expect you to be conscious. 

 

It’s the pain. Feinberg had scoffed at Couriway. Causes adrenaline. Keeps the brain awake. Do they not teach you this stuff?

 

I know that.

Feinberg’s flippant nonchalance in the face of death, combined with his surprisingly comprehensive knowledge of the human body and spirit for a programmer makes Couriway think that Feinberg would be a great hero if he weren’t so opposed to the profession.

Go figure.

“You coming in or are we just gonna hang out in my driveway all night?” Nerdi calls from the front stoop, door swung open behind him, light from the foyer silhouetting him in a gentle golden glow. 

Couriway shakes a fond smile from his face, closing the passenger door of Nerdi’s car and trodding across the front lawn to meet Nerdi at the front door.

With a flourish, Nerdi steps inside, pushing the door all the way open to make room for Couriway to enter. “Make yourself at home, friend.”

Once Couriway’s eyes adjust to the light, he scans Nerdi’s foyer, from the dark hardwood floor, up a grand spiral staircase, to the dizzyingly high ceiling, suspended from which is a gorgeous brass chandelier, complete with lightbulbs shaped like candlesticks. 

Further down the hall, exquisite paintings line nearly every inch of the wall, framed in intricate brass not unlike the chandelier dangling above.

Couriway places his hands on his hips, a low whistle escaping his mouth. “Holy smokes.”

Nerdi offers a sheepish smile as he shuts the door. “I enjoy decorating occasionally.”

“Decorating? Occasionally?” Couriway gawks, running his hand along the marble banister. “You’re joking. Nerdi, this is magnificent.”

“You only say that because you live in a tin can,” Nerdi mutters shyly.

“It’s a nice tin can,” Couriway defends. 

Nerdi raises an eyebrow, folding his arms.

Couriway’s shoulders sink, confidence deflating. “It’s a… decent tin can.”

“Even that’s a stretch,” Nerdi calls over his shoulder as he leads Couriway down the hallway to an equally impressive living room. 

“Leave me alone,” Couriway groans, making his way across a plush grey carpet and settling on an L-shaped couch the size of Couriway’s entire bedroom. In front of him is a brick fireplace, over which is a mantle decorated with a menagerie of memorabilia along with photos of Nerdi and his family.

“Now that you’re mostly out of the woods with Fruit, why haven’t you moved back over here yet?” Nerdi follows Couriway into his elegant living room, but instead of joining his friend on the couch, Nerdi stops at the fireplace, kneeling to light it. “I can’t imagine you like living in that dump.”

“I got used to it.” Couriway shrugs abashedly as Nerdi shoots him a sideways glance. “It’s nice to live within my means. Uh, no offense.”

Nerdi sighs shortly, cutting himself off as he stands. “None taken. You really have no interest in getting out of there? It’s probably safer back here than out in the middle of nowhere.”

Couriway watches the fireplace flicker to life as warmth begins to lick his skin, settling heavily on his brow and shoulders. “Maybe. I dunno, it’s just a lot of hassle.”

Nerdi shakes his head, trotting over to the couch and folding his arms. “Nah, that’s not it. No way your place is big enough to need more than one day to haul your stuff out of there, especially because…” Nerdi pauses, a subtle smirk dancing on his lips. “Oh, I get it. It all makes sense now.”

Couriway frowns, staring at Nerdi and his idiotic grin, like he knows something Couriway doesn’t. “What?”

“Mmm, I don’t wanna say,” Nerdi hums, mischief dancing in his eyes amidst the flames from the fireplace. “You’ll get mad at me. Even though I’m right.”

Couriway rolls his eyes, kicking his shoes off to rest his feet on the couch. “Just tell me. I’ve had a long day.”

Nerdi takes a seat on the arm of the couch, leaning against the back cushion as he watches the ceiling fan rotate. “Your roommate, Feinberg. You don’t want to leave him.”

“Well, not right now, obviously,” Couriway stammers, surprised that Nerdi has, once again, correctly guessed Couriway’s feelings with little effort. “Before, I didn’t really care, I just had a lot of other stuff going on and Fein’s been out of a job for a few weeks so I’m not about to leave him to pay both halves of the lease—“

“That sounds an awful lot like caring to me, Couri.” Nerdi glances back at Couriway from the side of the couch, his devious grin from earlier returning.

“Okay,” Couriway replies, exasperated. “You win. I haven’t moved back here because I didn’t want to leave Fein by himself. Happy?”

Nerdi snickers, more to himself than at Couriway. “Yes. Very.”

“Shut up.” Couriway reaches behind him, snatching one of Nerdi’s decorative throw pillows and hurling it in his direction.

Nerdi doesn’t flinch or duck away. Instead, a glimmering magenta force-field appears between him and Couriway just large enough to deflect the projectile pillow. The pillow bounces from the translucent shield, landing unceremoniously on the rug before rolling to a stop under the coffee table.

“Cheater,” Couriway mutters.

Nerdi shrugs. “You should get some sleep. You can use the shower in my guest bathroom if you want. Oh—do you need to borrow some clothes?”

Couriway shakes his head, gesturing to his bag lying on the coffee table. “No, I have some spare.”

“Right, I forgot about that whole secret identity thing you’re doing,” Nerdi says, an unreadable emotion in his tone.

“It has nothing to do with that.” The words come out more bitter than Couriway intended. “Having a change of clothes on me was something I learned from Fein. He said you’ll never know when you might spill coffee on your shirt five minutes before a meeting starts, but it will happen eventually.”

“He seems pretty cautious. How did he manage to end up in Fruitberries’s territory last night?” Nerdi wonders aloud.

Couriway nods, ignoring the ache in his chest. “I’ve been thinking that, too. I don’t know for sure, but it was probably because of me.”

Nerdi’s sharp gaze softens as it flicks over to Couriway. “Hey, you can ask him when he wakes up, yeah? Relax. I’ve got an early start tomorrow so I need to get to bed, but please bother me if you need something.”

Icarus has never been a coward, but it isn’t Icarus that receives Feinberg’s call. It isn’t Icarus that tracks Feinberg’s location and rushes to the scene.

It isn’t Icarus that whispers the words who did this to you and gathers Feinberg in his arms like a bouquet of delicate flowers, desperate to make it to a hospital in time.

It isn’t Icarus that returns to the scene of the accident, staring blankly at an empty dumpster smeared with dark streaks. 

It isn’t Icarus that turns around upon hearing footsteps behind him, and yet—

“Icarus,” a low, melodious voice beckons from the darkness. “Am I interrupting your brooding?”

Couriway recognizes the voice instantly. “Fruitberries,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Returning to the scene of the crime? I didn’t peg you to be so bold.”

“Return?” Fruitberries laughs, wicked but still subdued. “I never left, Couriway. I’ve been waiting for you ever since I almost killed your roommate.”

The way Fruitberries’s voice shrills at the word almost makes Couriway’s stomach churn more than being addressed by his first name.

“You’ve been waiting here the whole day?” Couriway squints at the darkness, his breath catching in his throat. He isn’t sure why he decides to ask Fruitberries an angry, selfish question, knowing he won’t get a clear answer. “How long did he suffer before I got here? Did you watch him bleed?”

“Not at all,” Fruitberries replies, flippant as ever in the presence of his archenemy. “The poison from my thorns should have fried his nerves in seconds. No pain.”

“Poison?” Couriway sputters in horror. “You poisoned him? Why?”

“Why? To give you hope.” Fruitberries’s cadence is light, like Couriway is an old friend of his and they’re catching up. “Then take it away.”

Don’t humor him, Couriway, he can hear his mentor saying. Let him dig his own grave. That’s how you win.

When Couriway doesn’t say a word, Fruitberries elaborates.

“It wouldn’t be fun to kill him all at once, would it?” Fruitberries’s voice sounds closer than before, but Couriway still can’t see anything in the pitch black alley. 

Fruitberries’s provocations begin to encircle Couriway, swirling around him like the rain bands of a hurricane. Couriway can no longer discern Fruitberries’s location as he speaks dulcetly. “What is fun, Couriway, is watching you. Watching you struggle. Watching you bargain with yourself, thinking that maybe, you can save him. Watching you realize you can’t.”

No.

Setting his jaw, Couriway takes a step into the beckoning darkness. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You saw the blood, Couriway.” Fruitberries continues without missing a beat, his tone almost giddy as his words grip Couriway’s shoulders, making their way to his neck. “You know what this is, don’t you?”

No, not like this.

Couriway’s voice is hoarse, strangled. “A trap.”

“And yet you came here anyway. Right back to me.” Fruitberries whispers in Couriway’s ears, but the words no longer come from the still air, as if the supervillain has somehow infiltrated Couriway’s skull. “You know how much I hate when things get in the way of my plans. You know that comes at a price.”

Couriway’s phone rings in his back pocket, impossibly far away. His ringtone travels up his spine until it, too, is echoing in his skull.

“Go on,” Fruitberries says, his crooked smile evident in his eerie cadence. “Answer it.”

The ringtone gets louder until it drowns out even Couriway’s own thoughts. 

No, you can’t answer the phone. You know what will happen if you do.

Fein? Is everything okay?

 

No, shit is really bad.

 

Hurry.

 

Please.

Couriway jolts awake, sitting bolt upright in the darkness. His chest aches with the pain of lost breath, his skin damp with sweat.

A light flickers on from the corner of Couriway’s vision.

“I could hear you babbling nonsense from upstairs,” Nerdi remarks, his hand sliding from the lamp as he  saunters over to Couriway. 

It takes a few seconds for Couriway to remember where he is: in Nerdi’s living room, on his couch, staring at Nerdi like a deer in headlights.

Couriway doesn’t say anything. He isn’t certain he can. When he tries to think of words to say, all he can hear is Fruitberries’s manic laughter.

Nerdi is quiet. Uncharacteristically, uneasily quiet. His eyes appraise Couriway, travelling from Couriway’s sweat-matted hair, down to his hands, trembling at his sides.

When Nerdi finally speaks, it isn’t what Couriway expected. He doesn’t press the matter. He only shrugs noncommittally. “It’s almost time for me to get up anyway. Do you wanna talk about it? I can make some coffee.”

Couriway opens his mouth to say something, anything. What ends up coming out is broken, almost inaudible. “There’s so much I may never get to tell him.”

Nerdi interprets Couriway’s non-answer as a yes, taking a seat on the couch beside Couriway.

“Why don’t you try writing him letters?” Nerdi speaks softly, the same way he did in the car. “You don’t have to give them to him, just think about all the things you don’t think you can say and write them down.”

“It doesn’t matter what I say if I can’t say it to him,” Couriway mutters, his voice thick with sleep. “It doesn’t matter if he never wakes up.”

“He will,” Nerdi replies, confident enough that Couriway almost believes him. “For now, you need to focus on you. Do you think he wants you beating yourself up over him?”

Couriway shakes his head, squishing his cheek against the couch cushion. “No. That’s his problem. He’s way too nice. He probably didn’t even try to fight back.”

Nerdi hums in disagreement. “The scene suggested a struggle,” he says, careful not to reveal too much about the police’s debrief. “Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do.”

Couriway stares at the ceiling fan, watching it spin and spin, not unlike the thoughts swirling in his head. “How crazy do you have to be to fight back against a supervillain?” 

Despite himself, a small smile spreads across Couriway’s face as he answers his own question. “Only Feinberg levels of crazy. He probably triangulated an escape route or something.”

“What I’m getting about your roommate is that he’s basically the perfect hero, but he doesn’t have any kind of power?” Nerdi calls from the kitchen. He must have gotten up earlier, but Couriway didn’t notice him leave. “Or are your glasses rose-tinted and I never noticed?”

Couriway laughs quietly, letting his heavy eyelids close. “Absolutely not perfect. He’s a good strategist, but he barely leaves the house. He can’t fight for shit and his aim is awful. Trust me, I’ve played basketball with him.”

“Your basketball games get that heated?” Nerdi jokes, his voice blending with the low whirring of the coffee machine.

Couriway smirks again. “You know what I mean.”

“You think he’d be good at my job?” Nerdi wonders aloud, presumably pouring himself a cup of coffee by the sound of running liquid. “Babysitting you idiots and doing the occasional undercover operation?”

He doesn’t have that kind of patience, Couriway thinks fondly, his muscles too tired for a verbal response.

Nerdi’s voice warbles in the corners of Couriway’s mind for a while longer before Couriway eventually drifts back to sleep.

After an uneventful goodbye to Nerdi, Couriway returns to his apartment. He trudges into the living room, the quiet all too evident now.

His eyes flicker to the couch, the spot where he was sitting when he got Feinberg’s phone call. He glances at the ragged armchair situated beside the front door. Feinberg’s backpack should be there, slumped against the back of the chair.

Blinking slowly, Couriway tries to pretend like Feinberg is out on the town, or maybe taking a walk nearby. He looks back at the front door, waiting for it to swing open and make everything okay again. 

The door stays shut.

Couriway imagines what it must have been like for Feinberg, storming out the door two days prior. What was going through his head? Did he know what he was walking into?

Don’t worry. I won’t come back until I’ve got your money.

Couriway grits his teeth, tearing his eyes away from the doorknob that has been ever-so-slightly loose since the day he moved in.

That’s not what I was worried about, you bozo.

Couriway climbs the stairs, his hand ghosting the railing. Couriway has never trusted the wobbly banister.

Couriway reaches the top of the stairs, and suddenly he’s staring down the hallway between Feinberg’s bedroom and his own.

Standing motionless on the landing, Couriway wracks his brain to recall what Nerdi said. Everything from that day is a blur in Couriway’s memory.

If my best friend told me I wasn’t special to him, I would make him pay for that, personally. Sounds like Feinberg swallowed his pride. He’s a better man than me.

Couriway shakes his head, willing the thought out of his wind. Briskly, he walks past Feinberg’s room, the door still ajar, and shuts himself in his bedroom, pressing his back to the door. 

Couriway can almost feel his wings brushing against his back. Feathers itch beneath his skin, begging to be set free. 

Couriway would love nothing more than to unfurl his wings and give them a good stretch, but his room is far too tiny for his wingspan. He should have thought about that before moving in.

He should have thought about a lot of things before moving in.

Groaning, Couriway collapses onto his bed, ripping his glasses from his face and discarding them on his nightstand. 

Right now, all Couriway wants is to be free from the burden of his thoughts.

After trying and failing to do anything productive for a few days, Couriway follows Nerdi’s advice, taking time off work to try to collect himself. Most of his days are spent going through the motions, thinking the same tired thoughts.

What could I have done better? Is it really my fault? If he wakes up, would he hate me? Should I tell him I’m Icarus?

What if he never wakes up? What would I do?

Eventually, the thoughts get too exhausting and wakefulness becomes more trouble than it’s worth, so Couriway instead spends his time in the land of the unconscious, dreaming about nothing at all.

Couriway’s seven o’ clock alarm rouses him from sleep as usual. He still hasn’t bothered to turn it off while he’s on his glamorous vacation.

His heartbeat is heavy in his chest as usual. He struggles to stand as usual. 

This morning, unlike all the other monotonous mornings before it, the untouched journal on Couriway’s desk catches his attention.

He isn’t sure why, but he shuffles over to his desk, sitting down. Fumbling for a pen, he flips the journal open.

Couriway stares at the blank journal on his desk. In his left hand is a dried-up pen. His right hand grips the side of the desk. All he has to do is put pen to paper, and yet he finds himself hesitating.

Nerdi’s advice echoes in Couriway’s mind. 

Why don’t you try writing him letters?

The tip of the pen hovers millimeters away from the page.

All the things you don’t think you can say—write them down.

The pen meets the paper, and at first the words are slow, the penmanship methodical. 

Feinberg,

The doctors said if you didn’t wake up in the first forty-eight hours, it’s unlikely you would wake up at all. It’s been a week since the accident. Maybe two. I don’t remember.

Couriway’s fingers begin to tremble, and the words follow suit. 

But I told them to wait. They said you’d have better chances with a healer. I told them to wait. They said the longer we waited, your prognosis would only get worse. I told them to wait.

The pen shudders in tandem with an unsteady breath. The ink is spilling faster now, the words conjoined in one stroke as Couriway doesn’t bother to lift his hand.

Again, they waited, but they didn’t listen to a word I said. They kept insisting that a healer would improve your chances, as if I didn’t know that better than anyone else but you in the room. But I couldn’t do that to you.

You always had my back in ways I hadn’t realized until you weren’t here anymore. My alarm didn’t ring the other day and I missed my bus. If you were here, you wouldn’t let that happen. I remember, the last time I took time off work and didn’t tell you, you barged into my room at 7:31 sharp to ask why I hadn’t gotten up yet. It feels so strange to wake up to a quiet apartment.

Sometimes, I want to do the same for you. Every morning I think about running into that depressing ass hospital room and demanding you wake up on time to bother me before I leave for work. The awful interesting color choices in there don’t suit you anyway. I think you look nicer in warm hues.

Couriway hadn’t noticed that a small smile crept up his cheeks. He takes a sobering breath, relaxing his expression before frowning at the words he’d written. It’s not enough. No amount of words will ever be enough until he can say them to Feinberg.

You must have trusted me a lot to call me in your time of need. I wish I could ask you why. What made you think of me when you were alone on death’s doorstep?

You couldn’t have known it would be Icarus who came to your rescue. Maybe you wanted me to know you didn’t hate me for what I said.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that. I knew you were struggling. I shouldn’t have hounded you about rent when I can easily pay it myself. I was just scared of you finding out I’m not actually a graphic designer. Well, I am, but I don’t work as one. 

If you found out, I’d have to go somewhere else, and I don’t want that. I like having you around. You make life a little easier. I don’t understand how you can be so calm all the time, even when you’re

The pen falls, Couriway’s fingers curling in on themselves. He can’t bring himself to write the word dying. His hand refuses to shape the letters. 

Maybe he should stop. The pen is running out of ink anyway. 

Then again, there’s so much he needs to say to Feinberg. So many questions Couriway may never get answers to.

He picks up the pen, pressing it against the paper with enough force to snap it in half if his hand were to slip.

Even now, I can’t believe you’re dying. You’re not supposed to die before me. With that kind of injury, you should have been dead before I got there, but you held on. Was it because of me? Is that why you’re still hanging on now, because I have hope? 

I guess I didn’t want to believe that I wasn’t enough to save you. How ironic, a civilian dying valiantly from a supervillain attack while his hero friend looks on in horror. Sounds like the plot of some shitty fanfiction or YA novel. 

I guess I think it should have been me instead. I’m supposed to protect you, but I couldn’t even stop you from leaving the apartment.

Maybe it was you protecting me. Did he ask you about me? Did he hurt you even though you were telling the truth when you said you knew nothing? Did he hurt you to draw me out? 

A trembling exhale.

Did I hurt you?

Resisting the temptation to scribble the entire page out, Couriway releases his iron grip on the pen, watching it clatter across his desk as he stands. He slams the notebook shut before shoving it in a nearby drawer.

Taking out his cell phone, he dials Nerdi’s number, ignoring the memories that flood his mind when he hears the dial tone.

Nerdi, thankfully, answers after the first ring, as if he’d known. “Yo, you ready to do that stakeout?”

Couriway nods grimly, even though Nerdi can’t see him. “I’m ready.”

Despite needing glasses to read, Couriway’s long-distance vision is second to none. He can clearly see Nerdi as he saunters up to a group of patrons loitering outside the bar, even from his spot by the window of a long-abdandoned warehouse across the street. 

Abruptly, Nerdi startles. His pace stutters for a moment before he recovers and approaches the group.

“Fulham?” Nerdi’s voice crackles through the radio in Couriway’s ear. “What are you doing here?”

That can’t be right. Couriway squints, trying to make sense of the faces on the other side of the road. 

Fulham is a mutual friend of Couriway and Nerdi, known to most people as the hero Ace, a reference to the most valuable card in poker. His tall stature and dark curly hair perfectly matches the figure standing next to Nerdi.

What is Fulham doing hanging out with a bunch of criminals? On the night of an operation, no less.

Couriway’s eyes flicker up to the sign above the bar. It glitters with the telltale neon lights of a casino. 

Wait, scratch that. It sounds exactly like Fulham to attend a gambling-drinking double feature.

“Could ask you the same thing.” Fulham’s voice is further away from Nerdi’s microphone, so it’s more difficult to make out.

“Fulham, you know this guy?” Another voice chimes in.

Couriway’s breath hitches. He’s heard almost those exact words somewhere before.

Fine, you know this guy?

Couriway shakes his head. He must stay focused. If something goes wrong, Nerdi will need him.

Fulham, visibly intoxicated even from Couriway’s vantage point, claps Nerdi on the shoulder. “Yeah, this is my mate, Nerdi. We work together.” He shifts his gaze from Poundcake to Nerdi. “I didn’t know you were cool like this.”

Couriway lets out a breath. It’s relieving that even under the influence, Fulham knows not to blow Nerdi’s cover.

“That’s because I try to avoid you.” Nerdi glares at Fulham, who only grins back. 

It’s strange to see Nerdi so serious. Normally, he loves teasing his friends, but now he appears to be trying to strangle Fulham with his eyes.

Nerdi’s specialty is undercover work. Couriway has never seen him in action, though. From the look on Fulham’s face, neither has he. 

Poundcake lets out a laugh as bubbly as the drink in his hand. “Aww, come on. Fulham’s a great drinking buddy.”

Nerdi rolls his eyes. “Yeah, if you enjoy babysitting.”

“At least I can hold my liquor,” Fulham sneers, swirling the beer in his glass. “Remember that company Christmas party?”

Couriway snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. Hoping Nerdi didn’t hear him, he recalls the party Fulham is referring to. 

Fulham emptied two and a half bottles of vodka ice into the punch bowl, resulting in an absolutely wasted Nerdi. It was the grossest punch Couriway had ever tasted and the most relaxed Couriway had ever seen Nerdi act before he puked in a houseplant and passed out.

“You’re just lucky I never turned you in to corporate for spiking the punch,” Nerdi replies as a waitress floats past the group, offering Nerdi a drink. 

“House’s craft beer,” she says sweetly, shoving the plate of mugs in Nerdi’s face. 

“Thanks,” Nerdi deadpans, plucking a drink from the platter.

Nerdi’s nonchalance surprises Couriway. He expected Nerdi to flush red as the stoplight reflection in the bar window. This Nerdi doesn’t so much as stutter.

Fulham is impressed, too, evident by the sly quirk of his brow, accompanied by a click of his tongue. “My man. The beer here is class. One of my favorites in town.”

Nerdi glances down at the glass in Fulham’s hand. “God forbid I have anything in common with you.”

“Lighten up, Nerdi.” Poundcake nudges Nerdi with his elbow. “What’s got you so grumpy?”

“Sorry,” Nerdi mutters. “A friend of mine got in an accident recently. They’re in the hospital, but I don’t think they can afford the treatment.”

Couriway squints, studying Fulham’s reaction. A blurry flash of recognition shines in Fulham’s eyes as they shift to Nerdi, then to Poundcake.

Fulham’s silence speaks volumes. He must have made the same connection Couriway did.

Poundcake seems to study Nerdi, too. “Sorry to hear that, man.”

Nerdi shrugs. “Not much I can do. It’s hospital bills or funeral bills.”

Couriway winces. Nerdi must have heard him, tilting his head slightly in apology.

“Ignore me,” Couriway whispers. “Say whatever you need to say.”

“Tell you what,” Poundcake says, tapping his fingernails on the side of his mug. “I know a guy. A healer. It’s under the table and pretty cheap.”

Nerdi shifts his weight, squaring his shoulders. “Really?”

Couriway finds himself in awe of how effortlessly Nerdi directs the conversation in his favor. This is a completely different Nerdi from the friend that greets Couriway in the lobby every morning. This Nerdi is cold, analytical, and straightforward. He is careful about which information he reveals and when. Even his body language commands an aura of authority. 

Couriway begins to wonder if he isn’t the only hero at the agency leading a double life.

“Yeah,” Poundcake answers, oblivious to Nerdi’s schemes. “His bedside manner could use some work, but he’s good at what he does.”

“I don’t know if I want to get involved in that slippery slope,” Nerdi replies, taking a long sip from his drink.

“Nah, Fine works alone.” Poundcake slips his free hand into his coat pocket. “He won’t get you in any trouble.”

Swallowing, Nerdi glances up. “He doesn’t work with anyone? How do you know about him, then?”

Poundcake shrugs, grinning. “I have connections.”

Nerdi mirrors Poundcake’s smile. “Okay, keep your secrets. You can vouch for him?”

Poundcake steps closer to Nerdi, lowering his voice. “Yes, sir. Fine is the real deal. He likes to work alone and he goes off the grid a lot. Everybody that’s ever worked with him—including yours truly—knows that he operates on his own weird moral compass, so it would be news to me if he ever teams up with someone that doesn’t align with his beliefs.”

Nerdi shakes his head. “No, I meant his healing capabilities. How good is he?”

“Oh, right on.” Poundcake leans against the window, placing his drink on a nearby bistro table. “He’s definitely the best healer I’ve ever heard of, let alone worked with—I mean, he can fix shit like congenital heart murmurs or whatever. I didn’t know that was possible until it happened to me.”

Nerdi stares at Poundcake. Couriway can’t tell if he’s shocked into silence or if he’s testing Poundcake.

“It happened to you?” Nerdi’s tone is hushed. 

“Yep,” Poundcake replies, much louder than Nerdi. “I went to the doctor and it was gone. It only cost me fifty dollars.”

Fifty dollars. Why fifty? With those kinds of abilities, Fine could charge anything and desperate souls would cough it up.

Nerdi shakes his head again, backing up. “You’re not screwing with me, are you?”

Poundcake gasps quietly, feigning offense. “I would never lie to you, Nerdi.”

Couriway tears his gaze away from Nerdi, glancing at the many battle scars on his left arm. If this Fine figure can do something like fix heart problems, a flesh wound should be a piece of cake, right?

Couriway’s attention jerks back to Nerdi when he hears his roommate’s name, only to quickly realize that Nerdi is instead referring to the enigmatic underground healer dubbed under a similar moniker.

“You said his name is Fine?” Nerdi downs his entire glass in one gulp. 

Couriway is once again left wondering if Nerdi’s actions are part of the act or if he, too, is anxious down to his bones.

“Jeez, slow down, man,” Poundcake teases. “Nobody’s going to steal it from you.”

“Long day,” Nerdi replies, placing his empty glass next to Poundcake’s. 

Perhaps it’s both.

Fulham whistles. “No kidding.”

Couriway jumps. He nearly forgot Fulham’s presence entirely, what with the standing there in uncharacteristic silence. 

“You want another?” Poundcake waves over a waiter. 

Nerdi places a hand on Poundcake’s arm, stopping him. “No. I’ve got work tomorrow morning.”

“What about a wife at home?” Poundcake elbows Nerdi in the side, who shoves him away.

“Why?” Nerdi peers at Poundcake over his glasses, which is the first behavior Couriway recognizes from his own conversations with Nerdi. “You interested?”

Poundcake flashes a toothy grin. “Maybe.”

Nerdi turns barely enough for Couriway to see his right hand, flashing a three-fingered signal. 

“Right,” Couriway mutters into his microphone, fumbling his cell phone from his pocket. 

As Couriway dials Nerdi’s number, he counts down. “Three, two, one.”

Couriway can’t hear Nerdi’s ringtone over his headset, but the call must have gone through because Nerdi shuffles through his bag, letting out a quiet groan of annoyance.

As Nerdi brings his phone to his ear, Couriway shuts off his headset.

“Hello?” Nerdi answers, in place of his usual yo, what’s up. 

Taking a breath, Couriway begins to recite the script Nerdi gave him. “Hello, Nerdi, where the hell are you? We’ve been waiting for you for half an hour.”

Couriway squints, watching the group around Nerdi for reactions. He hears Poundcake giggle through the receiver. 

“Is that Couri?” Fulham leans toward Nerdi. “Oooh, you’re in trouble.”

Nerdi backs away, unamused. “Uh, yeah, I’m on my way. I got stuck in traffic.”

Fulham leans closer, peering over Nerdi’s shoulder. “Yo, Couri, what’s good, brother?”

Nerdi covers the microphone with his hand, frowning. “Shut up, Fulham.”

Fulham steps back, looking awfully pleased with himself. Couriway can’t tell if he’s enjoying forcing Nerdi to ad-lib, or if this is his way of helping. 

Either way, Poundcake and his entourage are buying it, cracking quiet jokes among each other at Nerdi’s expense. 

Couriway decides to ignore Fulham, continuing his speech. “Well, you better get here ASAP. We need you, and it’s my ass on the line if this pitch goes under.”

Couriway cringes inwardly, making a mental note to ask Nerdi why on Earth he thought Couriway playing the bad guy was a good idea.

“Yes, sir, I’ll be there.” Nerdi’s voice is saying the words, but his anxious tone is jarring in comparison to his usually upbeat demeanor, never mind the fact that he just called Couriway sir.

“You’d better.” Couriway finishes his part of the script and hangs up as Nerdi instructed.

After staring blankly at his phone for a moment, Couriway switches his headset back on.

“—gotta go,” Nerdi is saying, playing it cool in front of his new friends and Fulham. “I’ll see you guys later.”

Nerdi doesn’t wait for a response, turning on his heel and racing toward the parking lot, as per the plan.

Couriway stands, too, stretching his stiff legs. He doesn’t leave the building yet, though. He waits for Nerdi’s signal.

After a minute or so of watching Fulham and Poundcake bounce undoubtedly awful jokes off each other, Nerdi’s voice crackles through Couriway’s headset. 

“All clear,” he says, out of breath. “You can go home.”

Couriway doesn’t need to be told twice. This crumbling old building has been giving him the creeps for hours. “Where the hell is your car? I thought it was in the parking lot.”

“It’s in a parking lot,” Nerdi pants. “Just not anywhere near here. Can’t risk being seen.”

Couriway pushes open a steel-framed side door marked EMERGENCY EXIT. “Is that really necessary?”

“Yes,” Nerdi answers curtly. “Especially if Fruitberries is involved.”

“We don’t know that for certain.” Couriway’s feet hit the sidewalk as a cool gust of evening breeze sweeps through his hair. He’s thankful for it. After all, that building was surprisingly well insulated for how decrepit it looked on the outside.

By the sound of it, Nerdi finally reaches his car, the door slamming next to him. “Better safe than sorry.”

Couriway frowns at his feet. “Are you okay to drive? I can come get you.”

Nerdi laughs. “Yes, Couri, don’t worry. That place waters down their beer so much it should be illegal. It’s like point-zero-one percent alcohol.”

“What about Fine?” Couriway asks, his anxiety getting the better of him. “Are we anywhere closer to figuring out who he is?”

“No,” Nerdi says, “Everything Poundcake said matches our intel. Except…”

“The heart defect thing,” Couriway finishes, kicking at a stray pebble on the sidewalk. “He’s gotta be lying. Healers can’t do that.”

Nerdi is silent for a moment. “I don’t know what reason he’d have to lie. He and Fine aren’t friends, they have no shared connections, and he said it himself that Fine isn’t the organized crime type. Poundcake has no reason to embellish Fine’s abilities.”

“But he said Fine charged him fifty dollars.” Couriway has monitored so-called freelance healer prices and none of them have ever been that low. “For what he can do, that's nuts.”

“So, either we’re dealing with a criminal-aligned super altruist, or…” Nerdi pauses. “But that can’t be right.”

Couriway swallows. “Or what?”

“Or Fine isn’t underselling himself, at least in his eyes.”

“How can that be possible?” Couriway shakes his head in surprise, though he knows Nerdi can’t see him.

“It’s possible if Fine doesn’t know exactly what he’s capable of. That way, his prices make perfect sense as a relatively small figure in the market.”

Couriway lifts his eyes from the sidewalk to the empty street in front of him. “How can you be capable of healing birth defects without knowing?”

“We overestimate our limits all the time,” Nerdi replies, instead of answering Couriway’s question. “What if Fine didn’t know he could until he did?”

Couriway wracks his brain, cobbling together every memory he has of Fine, all the way back to the first time they met, just a few weeks ago.

Are you alright?

Just fine. I may have had a little too much to drink earlier.

Are you a hero?

Afraid not, just a big fan, if you will.

One by one, the pieces fit together in Couriway’s mind.

“When I first met him,” Couriway blurts in a hurry. “He was asleep next to a lamppost. He said he had too much to drink, but what if that’s not true? What if the reason he passed out was because he went too far when healing Poundcake?”

Nerdi mutters something unintelligible under his breath. “The dates match up. You might be on to something.”

Couriway turns the corner, approaching his apartment. “It would explain why he’s been off the grid since then.”

“Which isn’t great for us,” Nerdi agrees, his voice quiet. “We can’t afford to scare him away at this critical juncture. All we can do is wait for him to make the first move.”

Couriway runs the facts over in his head again, gazing sightlessly at the city below. Just beneath his feet is the hospital where he once brought a bleeding and bruised Feinberg inside, begging for a doctor. It had been so difficult to let go, to relinquish Feinberg into the hands of strangers. Couriway didn’t leave the hospital for hours, which would have been days if Nerdi hadn’t hounded him to go home and clean up the blood staining his uniform. 

Once he’d gone home, Couriway couldn’t bring himself back to the place he’d left Feinberg alone for the second time that night. 

Not until tonight, just over two weeks later. Couriway may not be able to walk through the glass doors again, but he can fly to the very top of the building, where no one can hear him muttering to himself as he paces along the roof’s edge.

“I have to be missing something…”

Feinberg said Fruitberries mistook him for an ally. Fruitberries only kills people when he can’t afford to leave them alive. Everybody knows that. So why did he try to kill Feinberg?

Fruitberries isn’t a bloodthirsty villain. He toys with his victims’ psyches until they can no longer think for themselves. He turns them into pawns, puppets he can manipulate from the background. It’s a sick form of amusement for him.

Some people play sports. Some write stories or draw pictures. Some play video or card games. Fruitberries plays mind games.

Nothing he says can be trusted, but even so, Couriway can’t help but wonder if Fruitberries went after Feinberg to get to him. To Icarus. His true target.

Maybe Fruitberries tried to kill Feinberg, but something stopped him. Or someone. It couldn’t have been a hero or a healer—a hero wouldn’t have left Feinberg there to chase after Fruitberries, and any healer worth their salt would have at least staunched the bleeding.

Did Fruitberries try to play mind games with Feinberg? Maybe Feinberg resisted Fruitberries’s attempts to manipulate him, which made Fruitberries angry. Angry enough to slash Feinberg with the force to stop a moving train in its tracks.

“No one else was there…”

It was just Feinberg at the scene. He called Couriway—his supposedly powerless roommate—for help. That’s what stumps Couriway most, even more than Fruitberries leaving a witness alive. Why would Feinberg call him? Feinberg couldn’t have known Icarus would be the one to arrive at the scene. Could he?

So maybe it was something else. Maybe Fruitberries was interrupted before he could finish the job. Maybe he changed his mind. But why?

What could make a supervillain change his mind about a murder?

Something vibrates in Couriway’s pocket. Only after a moment of confused staring at his thigh does he realize his phone is ringing. Couriway retrieves his phone, a sense of dread snaking down his spine as he reads the caller ID. 

Someone from the hospital is calling him.

With trembling fingers, he answers the call, bringing his phone to his ear.

Couriway has been through this dozens of times before. He knows what’s coming. 

Better to just get it over with.

“Icarus.” Couriway steadies his voice as best he can. “What can I do for you?”

“Hello, Mr. Icarus,” A kindly voice drones from the other side of the line. 

Couriway listens to the woman explain her identity as a nurse and her place of work, a hospital by the name of something Couriway doesn’t quite catch, his mind too focused on preparing for the worst.

Finally, Couriway interrupts the woman. “Is he alive?”

“Excuse me?” The woman’s tone loses its evenness as she is caught off-guard by the razor’s edge of a pro hero’s impatience.

“Feinberg,” Couriway’s answer is tired. He can’t be bothered to steady his voice anymore. “Is he alive?”

“Oh,” The woman replies, as though she didn’t expect the mighty Icarus to be concerned about a civilian’s health. “Yes, sir, he is.”

Though he’s relieved that his initial assumption was incorrect, Couriway can’t yet allow himself to release his withheld breath. His hand tenses around his phone. “So what is it, then? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, sir.” Couriway can hear the woman’s smile as it spreads across her face. “He woke up.”

Chapter Text

Feinberg’s heart is beating way too fast.

The world around him is moving far too slowly.

Every half-second, Feinberg can feel blood pulsing in his veins, hot and fast with nowhere to go.

He falls to his knees, his raw palms meeting rough concrete. 

The moment Feinberg’s hands touch the ground, a searing jolt of electricity tears through his body and exits from his fingertips, charring his nerves from the inside out. Flashes of pink and blue imprint on his corneas, leaving flickering afterimages of green and orange in the middle of his blurred vision.

It’s as if Feinberg’s powers have been connected to a nuclear generator and his fingers are the only way out. His hands are glued to the pavement by the overwhelming force of the sparks burning dark marks into the cement.

He can’t tear his eyes away from his hands as the blood vessels beneath his knuckles burst and form branching patterns, flickering in tandem with the magenta and cyan sparks flying from his fingertips.

At some point, Feinberg stopped feeling pain. His nerves no longer respond to his brain’s panicked cries as his heart beats impossibly fast in his ribcage until his pulse disappears. Feinberg can’t hear the sound of his breaths or see the rising of his chest. The only evidence that Feinberg isn’t yet dead is the sensation of blood rushing in his ears.

Abruptly, the world stutters to a halt, the air falling silent. After struggling to keep his eyes open for an eternity, Feinberg’s strength gives and his vision blinks out.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Consciousness seeps back to Feinberg in tiny droplets. One by one they collect into a puddle of slurred memories. 

Pain. Fear. Blood. A crooked smile.

Eventually, Feinberg’s scattered thoughts merge together to form one coherent realization: 

Well, what do you know? I’m alive.

Feinberg groans, dragging himself into a sitting position despite the complaints agonizing in his stomach. 

That explains the vividness of his dream, at least.

Feinberg swallows roughly, subduing a cough. The inside of his mouth tastes of blood and ammonia. His throat is drier than Reign’s sense of humor. His head aches like a motherfucker, but all of this was to be expected.

With more effort than he’d like to admit, Feinberg lifts his head, squinting at the IV bag above him. For what it’s worth, the nurse attempted to ease his pain with medicine, but unbeknownst to them, it did nothing for Feinberg. It may as well be placebo.

Feinberg hasn’t been hospitalized in so long, he’d almost forgotten that painkillers have no effect on him. It has something to do with his power, if he has to guess. 

Even before he discovered his power, Feinberg never told anyone about his intolerance to opiates and anti-inflammatory drugs, but Feinberg suspects his parents figured it out eventually. They never asked him about it, though.

Feinberg can’t blame them. He didn’t exactly grow up rich, so he can understand why his parents were reluctant to send him to a fancy doctor to run all kinds of expensive tests and push costly experimental medicine.

Anyway, painkillers can’t kill Feinberg’s pain, and he can’t numb his own pain either, so he quickly developed a tolerance.

Don’t get him wrong, that doesn’t make Feinberg’s situation any less miserable.

When the nurse returns, they ask Feinberg how he’s feeling, and Feinberg forces a smile and pretends he’s not in excruciating pain. Naturally.

“What’s today’s date?” Feinberg asks, hoping to dodge any further questions about his physical or mental state.

The nurse raises an eyebrow at Feinberg. “Usually I’m the one asking those kinds of things.”

“I’ve been unconscious for an unknown amount of time, but I can give you my best guess,” Feinberg says. Glancing at his fingernails, which are maybe a little longer than they were before his near-death experience, Feinberg throws out an estimate. “Early June.”

The nurse blinks, checking their watch. “Yes, it’s June second.”

Wow. That was a lucky guess. Feinberg has no idea how fast fingernails grow. 

The nurse is undoubtedly surprised by Feinberg’s lucidity, considering the dosage of painkillers flooding his veins. Anyone other than Feinberg would be high out of their mind, so Feinberg must look weird as hell. 

Fortunately, Feinberg doesn’t care about looking strange to some random nurse. They see weirder things on a daily basis, anyway.

Feinberg isn’t excited about being correct. Quickly doing the math in his head, Feinberg works out that it’s been over two weeks since his unfortunate encounter with Fruitberries on May fifteenth. 

Considering the amount of power Feinberg had to use to keep himself alive, it’s possible he could have sent himself into a lifelong coma, so it could be worse. Using his power on himself always comes with weird side effects.

Briefly, Feinberg wonders how Couriway has been faring in his absence. Knowing his roommate-turned-savior, Feinberg would be surprised if Couriway hasn’t been beating himself up over Feinberg’s mistakes for the past eighteen days.

Feinberg will have to field a lot of questions when— if —Couriway comes to visit.

There’s no way Couriway won’t rush over as soon as he gets wind of Feinberg’s newfound consciousness, but part of Feinberg is still replaying their conversation from two weeks ago over in his head.

You’re not special, Feinberg. There are plenty of people who would be willing to split the bills with me.

Maybe Couriway—Icarus—only saved Feinberg’s life out of obligation. Maybe he doesn’t care.

Feinberg is about to ask for his phone so he can call Reign when the door flies open, slamming against the wall.

Feinberg hardly flinches, as he’s more than used to his roommate kicking doors down, but the nurse glares at Couriway anyway, who shrinks in the doorway.

“Sorry,” Couriway squeaks, his gaze sweeping across the room.

After a brief interlude of stalling in the corner, Couriway‘s eyes meet Feinberg’s, and for a moment there’s a beat of silence where neither roommate knows quite what to say. 

Feinberg stays quiet, mostly because he’s weighing the pros and cons of pretending to be affected by painkillers, which would be somewhat embarrassing, versus Couriway finding out that Feinberg is still in pain. Lots of it.

Feinberg doesn’t want Couriway to feel any worse than he already does, judging by the unconcealed guilt in his eyes.

Sensing the tension in the air, the nurse excuses themselves. “I’ll leave you two alone. Give me a shout if you need something.”

Feinberg can only hope that Couriway doesn’t blame himself too much for what happened.

When the door closes, Couriway takes a slow step closer. “I’m… so sorry, Feinberg.”

Damn it.

Still uncertain about speaking, Feinberg raises an eyebrow, as if to say for what?

Couriway gestures to the folding chair at Feinberg’s bedside. “Can I sit?”

Feinberg nods, the pounding in his skull protesting with a dull throb. It takes far too much willpower not to wince.

Couriway gives Feinberg a look reminiscent of a kicked puppy before sitting down.

Couriway clears his throat. “If you don’t want to talk, that’s okay, I just, I don’t know, hope you’re willing to listen.”

Feinberg can work with that. He nods again, which he should really stop doing.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know what to say to Couriway either. What should he say, after all? 

‘Don’t worry, I know you were there for me because I know that you’re Icarus’ is out of the question, but dismissing the situation altogether would be suspicious.

There’s hardly a precedent for this kind of thing, and Feinberg isn’t great at freestyling social interactions. Scratch that; he isn’t great at social interactions, period.

For all Couriway knows, Feinberg is a freelance programmer. There’s no easily-explainable reason why Feinberg wouldn’t be shaken up after being attacked by the city’s most infamous supervillain.

Then again, nobody else knows the identity of Feinberg’s attacker. Maybe he can use that to his advantage, but his head hurts too much to think about it right now.

Any ordinary person would be traumatized beyond measure, and maybe that’s what Couriway is expecting from Feinberg.

But Feinberg isn’t an ordinary person, and he isn’t sure how he feels about pretending to be disturbed. Not after Couriway already witnessed him acting calm before. 

Maybe if Feinberg sounded panicked on the phone, he wouldn’t be in this mess of his own creation.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Feinberg says, blending a few syllables together for good measure. 

A small smile graces Couriway’s lips. “You don’t mean that, you’re high as balls.”

Feinberg subdues a giggle. At least his acting skills are intact. Or maybe Couriway is just gullible. “I can still sink— think for myself.”

Not all of Feinberg’s struggles with speaking are fabricated. His tongue is fat and heavy in his mouth, the pain in his stomach is doing a damn good job at taking the breath from his lungs, and his word recall is lackluster through the fog in his brain.

He coughs, the agony exploding in his midsection nearly snatching Feinberg’s woozy consciousness from him. His vision goes white as he swallows a dry heave, gasping for breath. Thankfully, Feinberg hasn’t eaten in weeks. 

“Fuck,” Feinberg swears behind gritted teeth. His wobbly voice is a pitiful attempt at sounding tough, but Feinberg had to try.

“Fein?” Couriway calls through the ringing in Feinberg’s ears. “Do you want me to get the nurse?”

“I told you not to worry about it,” Feinberg snaps, far too sharp-tongued for a man who isn’t supposed to be in any pain.

Feinberg can only hope Couriway doesn’t notice how much he’s shaking.

Breathing through the agony, Feinberg blinks the spots from his vision. He makes sure his eyes are dry before looking up at his roommate.

“Fein, you don’t have to lie to protect my feelings,” Couriway’s voice is quiet, unfitting of the boisterous man Feinberg has come to know. “If you’re mad at me, that’s okay.”

Feinberg holds back a smirk. Is that what Couriway thinks is going on here?

“I’m not,” Feinberg draws out the word, then pauses for dramatic effect. “Mad at ya, Couri. Why would I be? I could never-ever be mad at’cha.” 

Couriway doesn’t look comforted. “The whole reason you were out there was because of me.”

“Really?” Feinberg asks, pitching his voice upward. “I don’t think I recall you pushing me out th’door.”

“But I never should have said that,” Couriway replies, not taking Feinberg seriously, which is understandable, but annoying all the same.

“Watcher—uh, water under the bridge, my friend.” Feinberg shrugs, biting the inside of his cheek as his wound stretches along with his muscles. “How long ago was that? Two weeks?”

Couriway’s eyes soften. “Listen, I know you’re on all kinds of drugs right now and you probably won’t remember this conversation, but I want you to know I’m sorry. I never imagined anything like this was possible.”

Couriway brings up a good point. Feinberg will remember this conversation crystal-clearly, but he shouldn’t. He decides that he’ll forget anyway, if only to ease Couriway’s nerves.

“Well, if I won’t remember,” Feinberg says thoughtfully. “Why don’t you just tell me how you feel? No strings attached?” Feinberg holds up his left hand, showing Couriway his IV with a goofy grin.

Feinberg will admit he’s having fun with this.

Couriway stares at Feinberg, a curious look in his eyes. He takes a deep breath. 

“Okay, this is really stupid, but… Fuck.” Couriway pushes his glasses onto his forehead, running a hand through his hair. “I was there. I was there when you got hurt. That was me. I flew you to the hospital. Skies, I was so scared, man. I thought you were dead for sure. The doctors didn’t think you’d pull through either, but you did. I don’t know how you did it, but thank you. I owe you everything.”

The surprise on Feinberg’s face is genuine as he blinks at Couriway.

Feinberg wasn’t expecting that.

Okay, this is no longer fun. This is bad. Why on Earth would Couriway tell Feinberg that?

“No fucking way,” Feinberg mutters, for lack of a better reaction. “You’re Icarus? You’re like my favorite hero!”

Couriway doesn’t look flattered. Instead, he looks guilty, as if the kicked puppy from earlier had broken a vase. “I know,” he says softly.

Oh, right. Feinberg said that to fuck with Couriway when he thought he was going to kick the bucket. He supposes it’s true. Couriway is the only professional hero Feinberg has managed to tolerate, let alone make friends with.

“Don’t worry,” Feinberg says with a laugh. “I’ll take your secret to the grave.”

Finally, Couriway snickers, his lips quirking upward in a subtle grin. “You’re not funny.”

Feinberg shrugs, making sure to keep his midsection still this time. “You laughed.”

Couriway rolls his eyes. “At you, not with you.”

“You’d laugh at an injured man? What’s wrong with you, Icarus?” Feinberg teases, exhaustion beginning to catch up with him. It appears he pushed himself too hard after waking from a coma only a few minutes ago.

Couriway seems to realize this, too, placing a hand on Feinberg’s arm. “Get some rest, I’ll be here for a while. I called Reign. Do you want me to wake you when he gets here?”

Feinberg slouches under the somewhat scratchy covers, remembering his last conversation with Reign. After this, Reign would have a lengthy lecture for Feinberg if he didn’t have to explain why he didn’t pick up the phone.

Feinberg nods, hoping Reign will at least go easy on him. 

As the pull of sleep beckons Feinberg into oblivion, he can barely overhear Couriway whispering.

“I love you, man.”

Feinberg will remember that.

If Feinberg had another dream, he doesn’t remember it. 

The blinding hospital lights sting Feinberg’s eyes as he blinks himself back to the waking world.

He doesn’t feel any better than he did last time he woke up. Not that he’s surprised.

By some tragic twist of fate, the gash in Feinberg’s stomach continues to singe his nerves like he’d swallowed hot coal. He attempts to take a deep breath, then quickly realizes his mistake as the pain takes a sharp spike upward, punching the air from his lungs.

Keeping his breathing shallow this time, Feinberg sits up, biting his tongue to avoid drawing attention to himself with any sounds of discomfort.

“What were you thinking?” Feinberg’s best friend speaks sternly to his right, where Couriway once sat an unknown amount of time before.

“Good to see you, too,” Feinberg mutters, refusing to meet Reign’s eyes.

Tentatively, Feinberg brings the back of his hand to his forehead. He’s awfully warm for a guy that usually runs cold. Not good.

The last thing Feinberg needs right now is a concussion or infection.

“Fuck off,” Reign scoffs, offering no patience for Feinberg. “You know I’m glad you’re alive, but you almost weren’t. Do you have any idea how worried Couri was? You scared that guy to death, you know that?”

“As opposed to you,” Feinberg responds bitterly, struggling to form words through the pain and fatigue clouding his mind. “You were so chill you didn’t bother to pick up the phone.”

Frankly, Feinberg doesn’t care about Reign’s absence that night. He was probably sleeping. Feinberg doesn’t blame him in the slightest. Bringing it up was the only way for Feinberg to buy a moment of peace and quiet, so he did what he had to do.

Reign doesn’t say anything. The whirring of the air conditioner fills the silence in his stead. 

Feinberg and his spinning head prefer it this way. At least the air conditioner can’t raise its voice.

“I’m… sorry about that.”

Feinberg’s eyes must have fallen shut at some point, because they snap open, Reign’s voice startling Feinberg out of his half-asleep stupor.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Feinberg mumbles, his throat crackling. His eyelids beg to be closed again, and Feinberg almost acquiesces before Reign commands his attention back.

“Yeah, it does. Can you look at me, please?”

Resisting the urge to groan, Feinberg lifts his head, squinting at the figure at his bedside. “Why do you care?”

“Why wouldn’t I care?” Reign’s voice spikes in volume, grating against Feinberg’s ears. “You nearly got yourself killed and I fuckin’ slept through it!”

“Ow—shit, I can hear you,” Feinberg hisses between clenched teeth.

Reign shoots Feinberg a bewildered glance, or at least that’s what Feinberg thinks he’s seeing. For being so close to Feinberg, Reign’s face is strangely blurry.

Blurry vision combined with noise and light sensitivity paint a grim picture for Feinberg’s health. All signs point to concussion.

Great.

“Fein?” Reign eyes the IV in Feinberg’s arm suspiciously. 

Feinberg doesn’t answer. Maybe he can salvage this. 

“Did they not give you meds?” Reign asks, his anger temporarily sidelined. “I thought that’s why you sounded all groggy.”

Oops. Cat’s out of the can. No, wait. Worm’s out of the bag. No, that’s not right either. Forget it.

Reign knows Feinberg too well not to notice the abnormality in Feinberg’s demeanor. His scratchy voice, his taut spine, and his trembling limbs are just a few of the signs Reign must have picked up on.

“No, that would be the pain,” Feinberg says slowly, like it’s obvious that he’s god-damn fucking hurting, because to Reign, it should be. “They gave me meds.” Feinberg manages to lift his arm a few inches before giving up and letting it drop to his side. “They don’t work.”

Every word from Feinberg’s mouth takes multiple seconds of pure, exhaustive focus to bite out, but Reign waits patiently for him to finish speaking, leaving a moment before taking his turn.

“What do you mean, they don’t work? Can’t they switch them?” Reign’s frown seems to worsen as he leans forward, inspecting the IV bag.

“Not even crystal meth would help, Reign,” Feinberg snarls, though when he hears himself, he sounds more like a hoarse foghorn than anything intimidating. “It’s because of my power. My nerves reject any medication that may…” Feinberg pauses to allow a wave of nausea to wash over. “Interfere.”

“What the fuck,” Reign breathes. “You’re kidding. Wait, so, you’re telling me that when you broke your arm in high school you could just… feel it? The whole time?”

In lieu of forming any more words, Feinberg nods.

“Damn,” Reign says eloquently. “That’s…”

“Anaesthetic doesn’t do shit either. I kept it from my parents…” Feinberg glances at Reign before hastily averting his eyes. “And you, because I didn’t want it to be a big deal.”

“Fein, that is a huge deal,” Reign says, proving Feinberg’s point. “What if you need surgery?”

“You say that like I’ll be able to afford it.” Feinberg almost rolls his eyes before remembering his splitting headache and thinking better of it. “I’m better off doing it myself.”

“Holy shit.” Reign stands, placing a hand on the back of his neck. “I knew you were insane, but that? What you just said? That’s some crazy fuckin’ talk, man, shit.”

“I was joking.” Feinberg watches Reign pace to the window and back with half-lidded eyes. “Do you have a better idea?”

“I don’t know, tell somebody?” Reign gapes at Feinberg in disbelief. “Find a doctor that knows how this shit works? Anything other than testing fate would be better.”

“I can’t risk that.” Feinberg mumbles. It’s a lame excuse, but it’s the only one Feinberg can think of. 

Going to the doctor would be a fantastic idea if Feinberg could get past the mortifying possibility of having to talk about his feelings, physical or mental. He almost shudders at the thought. 

That, and Feinberg knows how society treats people who can heal. Like professional heroes, those with powers like Feinberg’s are hardly people at all in the eyes of the public. 

Heroes and healers are two sides of the same coin. One used for destruction, the other for repair. Whether you help or harm, you are a tool to the establishment, and tools are expendable. You give up your autonomy the moment you step into the limelight.

Feinberg doesn’t want that. It’s why he’s kept his powers a secret all this time. He has seen how the life of a hero takes its toll on his roommate. 

Skies forbid anyone is useful to upholding society. Give an inch, and they will take a mile. Offer your good intentions, and they will twist you until you can no longer recognize yourself, and then, finally, they will throw you away and replace you with another bright-eyed hopeful.

In order to make sure that doesn’t happen to Couriway, Feinberg must first make sure he is free from the clutches of the rich and powerful. To save a drowning man, one must know how to swim.

“Why not?” Asks Reign, oblivious to Feinberg’s brooding internal monologue. 

Feinberg sighs shortly. “You think telling a doctor that I can do his job without any medical experience will go over well? They’d hold me hostage in the basement if it meant they could slack off a little more.”

Reign laughs. It’s light, carrying none of the tension from earlier. “I think you’re being too cynical.”

“I have plans that go beyond just this city,” Feinberg replies. “I want to make a real difference.”

Reign stares at Feinberg. He’s in the corner of the room again. His back is to the window, allowing dull sunlight to peek through dark curls. 

“Fein,” Reign warns, his voice trembling slightly.

Feinberg knows what Reign is going to say. He tries to cut off any complaints at the head. “This was a fluke, Reign, it was never supposed to happen—“

“You told me you wouldn’t.” Reign’s words are strained. “Was that your genius plan to catch him? Walking right into an obvious trap? You think I wouldn’t notice when you conveniently decide to take a life-threatening risk during the one night I wouldn’t be able to stop you?”

Feinberg flinches at Reign’s steadily rising volume. “It’s not like that,” he says, willing Reign to listen to him. “I was just trying to make rent.”

Reign scoffs, turning around to gaze out the window. “Did you give me that fifty last month so you could make that awful excuse?”

“Detective,” Feinberg blurts the only thing he can think of to make Reign shut up for a moment. “I know you’re used to seeing patterns everywhere, but I promise you it’s not that deep.”

“You know, Feinberg, you’re a really good liar.” Reign speaks so quietly Feinberg has to concentrate to hear him. “I almost couldn’t tell.”

“Get the fucking polygraph out, officer,” Feinberg bites out, exhausted. “Test me if you’re so sure.”

“I was a private investigator,” Reign mutters. “Not an officer.”

“I get that you’re pissed at me,” Feinberg says, staring holes into Reign’s back. “I’m pissed at me, too. You don’t need to go making up more shit to get pissed about.”

“Fein, you have to stop.” Reign turns around, his cheeks flushed and eyes glistening. “It’s not safe. You know it’s not safe.”

Feinberg squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. “Fruitberries told me I can heal birth defects.”

Feinberg peeks his eyes open just in time to watch a shadow pass over Reign’s face. 

“What? So it’s really true that Fruitberries did this to you? Icarus wasn’t making that shit up?”

“You remember when I gave you that fifty? The night I used too much of my power? I think I know what happened.” Feinberg forces the words from his mouth. Reign needs to hear them. Maybe it’s not just Reign.

Reign shakes his head. “No, that’s not possible. Fruitberries was just fucking with you. Trying to get in your head.”

“I don’t think so.” Feinberg lifts his right hand, remembering how it felt to sever his connection with Poundcake’s nervous system. He’d never felt anything like that before, and now his power is almost electric, crackling beneath his skin. “I think he was telling the truth.”

Reign stares Feinberg down, his expression complex. “You’re not thinking of testing it, are you?”

Feinberg lets his eyes fall shut, imagining that dog. The first creature he’d ever pulled from death’s doorstep. Then the ailing mother of a vigilante. Then, a childhood friend, Reign, Poundcake, and finally… Couriway.

“It’s too powerful of an ability to go unused,” Feinberg says, more to convince himself than Reign. “Even if it kills me.”

“It’s not worth it if it kills you,” Reign chides, like a parent dealing with an unruly teenager. “You already scared Couri half to death, who knows what would happen if you don’t make it out next time.”

“Don’t remind me,” Feinberg groans, pressing his fingertips into his eyelids. “He looks at me like he personally stabbed me in the stomach and left me to die.”

Reign is quiet for a moment, but Feinberg doesn’t dare open his eyes to sneak a look. “He told me what happened.”

“Couri?” Feinberg asks, though he knows the answer. “So you never thought I was lying about the rent thing? What the hell was that for, then?”

“I was trying to get you to admit it yourself.” Reign’s voice draws closer. “That you ran out because of what he said.”

“That’s not why I left,” Feinberg lies. “I was going to leave anyway.”

“Really?” Reign doesn’t buy it for a second. Damn.

“Why do you care, Reign?” Feinberg pries his eyes open, staring down at the hospital bedding.

“I don’t care,” Reign says. “But you do.”

Feinberg would roll his eyes if it wouldn’t worsen his splitting headache. Reign always hides unspoken words beneath the things he says. It’s a habit from his days as a private investigator. Feinberg can usually figure it out on his own, but right now he can’t be bothered. “Spit it out.”

Reign takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “You care about him. A professional hero, mind you. Not some nobody either. Icarus. Number three in the country.”

“So?” Feinberg doesn’t waste time denying Reign’s claim.

“If you keep this up, you’re not only putting yourself in danger…” Reign’s tone softens. “You’re painting a giant target on his back, too.”

“Did you forget why I quit my job in the first place?” Feinberg asks, his head heavy as he looks up to meet Reign’s eyes. “I wanted to keep him safe. From the background. No one knows he and I are connected.”

Reign stands. Feinberg knew that wouldn’t last long. Reign can’t sit still to save his life. “Thanks to your stunt in May, it’s likely that Fruitberries knows you two have some sort of prior relationship, if he doesn’t already know that you live together.”

“You’re being too paranoid,” Feinberg replies, the words awfully heavy in his throat. “Fruitberries has his eyes on me because of what I can do. He has his eyes on Couri because Icarus is a popular hero. He wants me on his side. He wants Couri dead or worse.”

“And,” Feinberg adds, huffing. “It wasn’t a stunt. It was a god damn accident. I fucked up by showing my hand too early. I wasn’t trying to get bitch-slapped by Fruitberries.”

Reign nods, as though he never disbelieved Feinberg. “What exactly happened between you two?”

“That is information you only get if you don’t yell at me the second I wake up from a coma, asshole,” Feinberg quips, leaning back and settling against his pillow.

“I really am sorry,” Reign says quietly, all agitation melting from his tone. 

“I know,” Feinberg replies. “But I’m still not telling you. I told you all you need to know already.”

“He wants you on his side.” Reign turns, approaching the window. “I assume you said no?”

“Nice try, detective.” Feinberg yawns. “I’m not talking without my lawyer present.”

Reign is quiet for a moment. The air conditioner whirrs in his stead.

“You… you are a really good liar.”

Feinberg’s eyes flutter open again. He almost forgot that Reign is in the room with him. He sits up—when did he lay back down?—blinking at Reign. “Huh?”

Reign studies Feinberg, taking a careful step in his direction, like Feinberg might explode if Reign makes the slightest mistake. Reign then seems to realize how pointless it is to treat Feinberg like he’s made of glass, and walks the rest of the way to Feinberg’s side normally.

“How bad is it?”

Feinberg closes his eyes again. Nothing could coerce him into keeping them open any longer. “How bad is what?”

“The pain, dumbass.” Something new settles in Reign’s tone. Feinberg has never heard anything like it before. It’s gentle, like pity, but not quite.

Feinberg doesn’t want to answer. He would rather Reign not know how much Feinberg hates his existence right now. It would crush him. 

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Feinberg says, almost forgetting that he has to move his mouth to make words come out. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

Feinberg can only imagine the cocktail of emotions swirling in Reign’s eyes. If he saw it for himself, Feinberg might pass out again. 

“Fine,” Feinberg mumbles. “It sucks. It’s the worst pain I have ever felt. Happy?”

“No, I’m not happy,” Reign’s voice is sharp, but he remembers to keep his volume down this time. “You’re recovering from a fatal injury without anesthetic or painkillers and I can’t do anything to help you. I’m fucking devastated, Fein.”

Feinberg doesn’t answer. He can feel his consciousness slipping from him, the same way it did when Couriway was at his side.

“I can’t imagine how much pain you must be in, and here you are acting like nothing’s wrong.” Reign’s voice circles Feinberg’s ears. Quiet footsteps tell Feinberg that Reign is pacing again. “Like you don’t even feel it. You’re a fucking fantastic liar. The best I’ve ever met.”

Feinberg can feel his lips cracking into a small smile. “You say that like it’s shocking.”

Reign’s footsteps halt. “It is. My job was once to catch liars. People hired me for that. But you… you fooled me for years.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Feinberg replies, imagining the frown on Reign’s face. “You weren’t looking for liars. You were looking for people with guilty consciences.”

Reign must have rolled his eyes, because there’s a pause before he speaks. “Potato, tomato.”

Feinberg swallows a cough. “Most people lie for their own benefit. I lied for yours. You were trained to spot hostility and catch killers, so it makes sense that you never caught me.”

“You never felt guilty about lying to me?”

“Course I did,” Feinberg laughs roughly. “But not because I thought I was doing something wrong. I lied so I could help people.”

“You are fucking crazy.” Reign’s words are derogatory, but there’s a hint of pride in his voice.

Feinberg’s recovery is slow and agonizing.

Feinberg has dealt with more than his fair share of physical pain, but the look Couriway gives him every two seconds is enough to make even the strongest stomachs churn with gut-rending nausea.

The mixture of pity and guilt behind Couriway’s dark eyes is entirely new to Feinberg, and all the more insufferable because of it.

Reign is worse. He wouldn’t stop badgering Feinberg for information about his encounter with Fruitberries, and when that didn’t work, he made Feinberg promise under threat of house arrest to retire Fine for good. 

Of course, Feinberg has no intention of hanging up his goggles, but he will have to stay off the streets for at least a few weeks while he heals. He still doesn’t know if his power survived Fruitberries’s attack. He doesn’t want to risk testing it on himself in case some freak accident happens. 

Testing it on anyone he knows is out of the question, so Feinberg finds himself taking a stroll through the hospital, looking for someone to accidentally bump into.

Part of Feinberg wants to find somebody with a genetic condition to see if Fruitberries was telling the truth, but he can’t be certain that he’ll know what to do should he succeed. Someone with a chronic condition miraculously having said condition disappear would draw attention no matter how it happens.

That doesn’t mean, however, that Feinberg can’t identify one if he manages to get skin-to-skin contact.

Feinberg stops by a waiting room, idling outside the door, listening.

“It’s just such a broad array of symptoms, I’m afraid we can’t diagnose anything for certain until we get your lab results back. We’re fairly certain it isn’t genetic, so it’s likely to be treatable.” A soft-spoken voice, presumably a doctor, seems to be conversing with a patient. 

“But I need to be cleared to play in the fall season,” a boyish, nasally voice responds. “Every physical I’ve had says I’m unfit for sports, but no one will tell me why.”

Broad array of symptoms, huh?  

Something like that could be a nerve disorder, which Feinberg can easily identify if he could get close enough to touch the patient. He doesn’t dare stroll into the waiting room and grab some random teenager by the arm, though. He needs to wait for a prime opportunity.

A third person joins the conversation, probably the patient’s mother. “You heard the doctor, all we can do is wait. I’m sure we’ll figure it out soon.”

As Feinberg runs over the laundry list of nerve disorders in his head, the door next to him swings open. 

Sensing an opening, Feinberg stumbles backward and does his best impression of Couriway slipping on the uneven tile in their apartment. 

Feinberg hits the floor a little harder than he’d intended, the sting of his fractured bones almost drawing a swear from him. He blinks the spots from his eyes as something appears in his peripheral vision.

“I’m so sorry, sir. Do you need a hand?” 

Feinberg looks up, staring at the trembling hand of the teenager he’d heard before. 

When Feinberg doesn’t speak, the boy fills the silence. “Don’t worry, I’m clumsy, too.”

Feinberg nods, clasping his right hand around the teenager’s left hand.

As Feinberg gets to his feet, he closes his eyes, concentrating. He imagines himself as an electron travelling through the boy’s nervous system, stopping as he gets to the spinal cord. The damage isn’t bad enough to completely destroy nerve function, but it’s difficult for Feinberg to read the rest of the nervous system above the neck. It’s as if the ink of a book has been smeared across the page, almost enough to be illegible.

The cerebellum is damaged, too. It’s not quite as bad, but it’s enough for Feinberg to let go, his eyes flying open. 

Feinberg can’t read genes, but the nerve damage paints a vivid enough picture for Feinberg to make an educated guess. 

Feinberg tallies what he learned in his head. Clumsiness, nerve damage to the spinal cord and cerebellum, approximate age of onset…

“Friedrich’s ataxia,” Feinberg mutters under his breath, letting go of the boy’s hand. “No wonder they don’t suspect genetic disorders.”

The boy blinks at Feinberg. “What?”

Feinberg glances down at the boy. He can’t be older than fifteen. He has his whole life ahead of him, but if his doctors don’t catch a degenerative nerve disorder before it progresses enough to be diagnosed, it could be cut short. 

Feinberg may not be able to heal the boy, but he can help. Taking a breath, he explains.

“Sorry, I overheard you in the waiting room. What you described, it sounds a lot like a nerve disorder to me.”

“Nerve disorders are typically genetic, and neither his mother or father have any history of those conditions,” the doctor says, brushing Feinberg’s suggestion off.

Feinberg winces, though he knew this would happen. 

On one hand, he could play it safe. He could keep his cover secure and pretend like he has no idea what’s wrong with the kid in front of him. Feinberg is generally the type to play things safe, but Fine isn’t, and Fine is closer to the person he really is than Feinberg has ever been.

He could agree with the doctor and keep walking, but that was never an option to begin with. Not to Feinberg, and certainly not to Fine.

“You’re right,” Feinberg replies, looking the doctor in the eye. They’re skeptical—they have every right to be. “But have they been tested?”

“Why would they need to be tested?” The doctor is beginning to lose their patience. “They have no symptoms.”

Clearly, this doctor isn’t fond of strangers acting like they know better, but in this case, Feinberg does.

Feinberg stands his ground. “They don’t have to have symptoms if the mutation is recessive.”

The doctor stares Feinberg down, assessing him. Feinberg accepts the scrutiny, allowing the doctor time to think. 

Finally, the doctor’s shoulders relax slightly. “What are you suggesting?”

Feinberg glances back at the boy, whose expression is guarded. “Friedrich’s ataxia fits the bill perfectly.”

“FRDA?” The doctor repeats. “I suppose it does. You know, I’ve never seen you around here before, are you a new resident?”

Feinberg shakes his head. “No, I’m here as a patient. My cousin had Friedrich’s.”

That is a lie, of course. In case Feinberg has gotten too good at it by now.

The doctor studies Feinberg for a moment longer. “I see. I’ll consider your suggestion.”

As the doctor and the rest of the group leave, Feinberg finds himself faced with another issue almost immediately. 

“Fein?” 

Feinberg wills himself not to wince at the sound of his roommate’s voice. “Couri,” he says, turning around. 

Couriway glances over his shoulder, in the direction the doctor went. “What was that all about?”

“Oh, I ran into someone in the hallway. Ate shit pretty bad. You would have loved it.”

Another lie.

Couriway crosses his arms over his chest. Thankfully, he spares Feinberg a lecture on being careful. “Why were you talking to the doctor?”

Feinberg shrugs. “They were making sure I was okay.”

Couriway stares blankly at the end of the hallway before he glances back at Feinberg, that awful look in his eyes again. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sorry if this is a touchy subject, but… Did the police come to interview you yet?”

Feinberg shakes his head, wincing almost imperceptibly. “Icarus kept my identity anonymous.”

I did? 

Couriway frowns, struggling to recall when exactly he told the hospital staff to keep Feinberg’s identity a secret. 

Instead, he remembers the harsh-yet-gentle words of his supervisor. 

Go home, Couri. You look like roadkill. Smell like it, too. I’ve got it handled, I promise.

Nerdi must have issued the command instead. Why? Was it to protect Feinberg or Icarus?

“But Icarus said a villain attacked you,” Couriway continues slowly, trying to keep his ignorant facade intact. “Is that not what happened?”

Feinberg says nothing. When Couriway glances over, Feinberg has a strange, faraway look in his eyes. 

“No,” Feinberg answers before blinking and looking back at Couriway. “I just said that so they’d help me.”

Couriway’s mind swims, trains of thought colliding with one another as he struggles to understand which parts of Feinberg’s story are the truth.

Feinberg has no reason to lie to his civilian roommate, but he has every reason to lie to Icarus, a professional hero. Feinberg has said it hundreds of times before: he doesn’t trust heroes.

Couriway swallows, feeling awfully stupid for believing Feinberg’s words as if he’d spoken them to Couriway instead of Icarus.

“Fruitberries didn’t attack you?” The words are tumbling from Couriway’s lips before he can think better of it.

Feinberg’s brow scrunches, his eyes studying Couriway, calculating. “What the hell is a Fruitberries?”

“Only the most infamous supervillain in the city,” Couriway blurts before catching himself. “At least, that’s what Icarus told me.”

Feinberg continues to stare Couriway down like he’s an unsolvable puzzle. “You should stop believing everything those frauds say.”

“Fine, so it wasn’t Fruitberries.” Couriway decides that if Feinberg is going to stare at him, he’ll stare back. “Then who was it?”

Couriway watches Feinberg’s eyes flicker to the floor before Feinberg finally turns away. “I didn’t see.”

“You didn’t see?” Couriway doesn’t bother to hide the disbelief in his voice. “But you were bleeding like crazy! You almost died because of this mystery person, and you’re telling me you didn’t see who they were?”

Feinberg flinches, his shoulders hunching, and that’s when Couriway’s brain finally registers the place they’d stopped at, right outside a waiting room.

People are staring.

“Did Icarus tell you that, too?” Feinberg’s voice is hushed and so cold it sends a shiver down Couriway’s spine. “What else did he say? That he kissed a frog and it turned into a princess?”

Couriway’s heart squeezes in his chest. He knew Feinberg didn’t like heroes, but Couriway didn’t think he hated his supposed favorite hero this much.

Which version of Feinberg was lying? The dazed Feinberg in the alley and the hospital room earlier, or the lucid Feinberg standing in front of Couriway?

More importantly, what does he stand to gain from lying?

“You’re hiding something from me.”

Feinberg doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move a muscle, standing motionless in the hallway.

Couriway is about to ask Feinberg if he fell asleep standing up when he glances over his shoulder, still avoiding Couriway’s eyes. 

“No, I’m hiding something from Icarus. You should seriously stop trusting heroes so much, Couri.”

The way Feinberg spits the word heroes like it’s sour makes Couriway’s stomach flip.

Without another word, Feinberg turns and brushes past Couriway, heading back in the direction he came.

“The leads Poundcake gave us went nowhere,” Nerdi says as Couriway walks through the door to HBG’s lobby. 

“Good morning to you, too.” Couriway stares at Nerdi, whose back is to Couriway as he glares down at a computer monitor.

Nerdi turns in his chair, resting his elbows on the front counter like he always does. “I think this is a huge waste of time and resources.”

Couriway scowls. “So is having you on the payroll, but you don’t see me complaining.”

Nerdi rolls his eyes. “Who pissed in your cereal?”

Couriway sighs, settling on the couch opposite the front counter. “Feinberg said he didn’t see who attacked him.”

Nerdi’s eyes narrow. “That doesn’t make sense. Didn’t he tell you a villain attacked him?”

Couriway’s jaw tightens. He strains to get the words out. “He told Icarus a villain attacked him. He told me he lied to Icarus so we would help him.”

Nerdi blinks behind his round-rimmed glasses. “I see.”

“This throws all my theories out the window,” Couriway groans, slumping against the cushions. “I have no idea how to bring the person who nearly killed my roommate to justice and I’m no closer to figuring out who this Fine person is.”

“Do you think Feinberg was also lying when he said Icarus was his favorite hero?” Nerdi pointedly ignores the latter half of Couriway’s thought.

The dread in Couriway’s chest sinks ever deeper. “Probably, yeah.”

“I can’t say it surprises me,” Nerdi mutters, turning back to his keyboard to type something. “I found it pretty odd that he had a favorite hero despite hating them, but I didn’t want to burst your bubble.”

“But he was…” Couriway swallows the rest of his sentence with a wince.

“Was what?”

“When he first woke up, he said he didn’t blame me for what happened, but when I talked to him about it yesterday, he was so cold to me.” Couriway clears his throat, steadying his voice. “He said something really weird and cryptic when I asked if he was hiding something from me. He said he wasn’t hiding anything from me, only from Icarus.”

Nerdi continues tapping at his keyboard. “He’s probably just upset that he had to rely on a hero for help.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Nerdi says, stilling his hands and glancing over his shoulder. “He may not blame you for his injuries, but he may be upset with you because from his perspective, you abandoned him and called a hero for help.”

Couriway blinks. “Oh.”

Couriway once again forgot that he and Icarus are two separate people from Feinberg’s point of view. Of course Feinberg would be upset if he called his roommate to help him and ended up with a hero instead.

Shaking his head, Couriway scrambles to focus his gaze somewhere other than Nerdi. The potted plant in the corner will do nicely. “But he would have died if I— If Icarus hadn’t been there.”

Out of the corner of his vision, Couriway watches Nerdi shrug, turning back to his computer. “He was more than willing to die, Couri.”

Abandoning the plant, Couriway’s eyes fly back to Nerdi. “What?”

“You said it yourself,” Nerdi replies, flippant as ever no matter the topic. “A healer could have saved his life easily, but he refused. He risked his life in favor of avoiding debt.”

“But I would have paid for it,” Couriway says.

Nerdi hums. “I’m sure you would. He doesn’t know that, though, does he?”

“I guess not.” Couriway imagines the smile on Feinberg’s face as he brushed off certain death, the blood staining his teeth as inconsequential as the words tumbling from behind them. “But he should.”

“So,” Nerdi asks over his shoulder. “What are you going to do about it?”

Couriway mulls the question over. To his knowledge, there’s only one way for him to continue protecting Feinberg with his secret identity remaining intact. 

“I need to make Feinberg trust me again.”

Nerdi nods. “Sure. And then?”

Couriway glances at his hands, balled into fists at his sides. “I need him to trust Icarus.”

Chapter Text

Approximately one week after Feinberg is discharged from the hospital, he wakes to a mysterious text message from an unknown number.

haii Fine :3 heard u got into some trouble last month

come find me. i have something for u

Feinberg stares at his smartphone’s lock screen. He refreshes his notifications but the messages linger.

Could this be another attempt at tricking Fine into coming out of hiding? Plenty of people have been trying that lately. None have succeeded.

Feinberg sits up in bed, unlocking his phone. He’s been awake for about half an hour now, trying in vain to go back to sleep after his roommate’s morning routine interrupted his mediocre nap. 

8:03 AM, June 23rd, the time reads. Couriway left for work a few minutes ago.

Feinberg opens the mysterious messages. Reading them again, he discovers something peculiar.

Both messages are time-stamped at 3:33 in the morning.

Feinberg mentally facepalms for not recognizing the calling card sooner.

This has Raddles written all over it. Not only does the feline mechanic have a fondness for the number three, but she likely rigged some sort of program to send the messages not a second too soon.

Given her profession in selling high-tech gear to randoms under the table, it makes sense that Raddles wouldn’t use her personal phone number to contact Feinberg.

Wasting no time, Feinberg sends a message back.

Same place?

Almost instantly, Feinberg receives a response.

yessir

Feinberg smirks at the screen. It’s been a while since he’s seen one of his so-called accomplices. This could be fun.

I’m on my way.

Before he can think better of it, Feinberg follows up. 

:3

That’s one way to get Feinberg out of bed.

Rad’s workshop is more of a garage than anything else. 

Rusted hinges let out a shrill squeal that grates against Feinberg’s ears. He winces, watching the feline mechanic lift the garage door with one arm. 

Raddles is all smiles and spiky purple hair, her unusually sharp canines poking out beneath her lip. A dark violet jumpsuit covered in questionable stains hangs from her shoulders, the zipper pulled down to her waist, showing off her ripped black tube top and chiseled physique.

Feinberg feels underdressed in the t-shirt he slept in and sweatpants.

“Fine,” Raddles says, waving him inside with a gloved hand. “Good to see you alive. I was starting to worry that all my hard work would go to waste.”

Feinberg ducks under the garage door, subduing a shudder as Raddles lets go, causing the door to slam shut behind him. 

“Hard work?” Feinberg mutters, yawning. He scans the scene before him: the garage is mostly empty save for a few cardboard boxes overflowing with salvaged machine parts and a folding table situated near the middle of the space. On the table, a few miscellaneous objects are piled haphazardly to one side. 

“Yep!” Raddles circles around the table, standing on the side opposite Feinberg, her long tail lashing from side to side. “It’s not every day that someone survives an attack from Fruitberries. He’ll undoubtedly be after you again soon. Think of this as an investment in your future.”

Feinberg winces.

Have some faith, Fine. You’re extremely valuable to me.

Value. Is that all Feinberg is to people? An asset to be seized and taken advantage of?

“Relax,” Raddles says, resting her elbows on the table. “I’m not trying to trap you. I just don’t want you to die the next time Fruitberries decides to use you as a punching bag, because he will find you.”

Feinberg nods. Raddles is one of the few black market equipment manufacturers that has done business with Fruitberries. 

It’s not a coincidence that she’s also one of the only dealers left in the city.

“He asked you to join him, didn’t he?” Raddles gazes up at Feinberg through thick lashes, her eyes the same intense purple as her hair. 

Feinberg nods again, crossing his arms over his chest, instinctively shielding his injury. “You?”

Raddles grins, flashing her canines. “Yes, sir, he did. Though he didn’t try to kill me when I refused. Just blackmail and other forms of psychological warfare.” Rad waves a hand dismissively. “He must have been real scared of you to want you dead.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Feinberg says, his throat crackling with disuse. “I work alone. I don’t have many contacts he’d be interested in. I can’t do anything to expose him without risking outing myself.” 

“Healers are hard to come by,” Rad replies, studying her sharpened fingernails, fashioned to look like claws. “He probably wanted exclusive rights to your services, like he did with me.”

“That’s what he said.” Feinberg frowns, wracking his brain for memories of that night untainted by blood. “He said I was valuable.” Feinberg curls his fingers into air quotes, scoffing. “He was convinced I could work miracles. He wanted me to cure some dude’s blindness and flipped out at me when I said I couldn’t do it.”

Raddles pauses, glancing back at Feinberg. Her fingers drum against the table. “That’s… crazy even for him.”

“Not even the best modern medicine can cure blindness.” Feinberg shakes his head, clicking his tongue in distaste. “I don’t know why he thought I could do it. I don’t know why he tried to kill me if he was convinced I was his only option.”

“Maybe he was testing you,” Raddles says the words Feinberg had been losing sleep over. “He fatally injured you to see if you could heal yourself back from the brink.”

“Even if I could somehow transplant liters of my blood back into my body, I definitely couldn’t do it in that state.” Feinberg can feel a migraine coming on. He pinches the bridge of his nose, hoping to stave it off. “I lived by a stroke of luck that the only hero capable of airlifting me to a hospital happened to be nearby.”

Feinberg deliberately leaves out the part about the hero being his roommate. 

“Icarus,” Raddles draws out the word, her tone unreadable. “I heard. It was all over the local news for a week. Witnesses said they’d never seen the hero that frazzled before.”

Feinberg raises an eyebrow.

“They didn’t mention your name publicly.” Raddles is quick to address Feinberg’s mounting anxiety. “But I guessed it was you after I tracked down the location of the attack and found these.”

Raddles gestures to the pile of equipment on the table in front of her. Upon closer inspection, Feinberg identifies his goggles, mask, and gloves, as well as the remains of his jacket. Each piece of equipment has been meticulously cleaned and modified.

His jacket was stitched back together with purple fabric not quite dark enough to match the stealthy black of the rest. His gloves appear to be thicker. Something that looks similar to a grey wristwatch has been attached to the base of the glove where he’d insert his hand. 

“Your mask was mostly intact, but I couldn’t find your goggles.” Raddles picks up the futuristic-looking visor, handing it to Feinberg. “I was already working on this little number, so it was no sweat.”

“It looks like a VR headset,” Feinberg comments, turning it over in his hands. He runs his thumb along the pink and blue casing, halting at a small switch on the right side of the visor. “What does this do?”

“I’ll tell you what all of it does,” Raddles licks her lips, bearing her fangs for a moment. “The screen you see on the outside is one way. You can see out, but people on the outside can’t see in. You can configure the screen to do whatever you want, but the default uses sensors to mimic what your eyes are doing. Turn it on with that switch.”

Feinberg flicks the switch, watching the screen flicker on. A pair of pixelated eyes blink to life, staring emotionlessly at Feinberg much like the emoticons Raddles is fond of.

“Isn’t it cute?” Raddles’s tail swishes back and forth behind her, a quiet purr rumbling beneath her words.

“Yeah,” Feinberg answers cautiously, uneager to piss off a catgirl with well-manicured claws. “But it doesn’t seem very practical for stealth.”

Raddles rolls her eyes. “You’re no fun. It also has thermal imaging capabilities and an automatic night vision mode. It’s capable of filtering out visual clutter like fog or rain and its casing is titanium. It could get run over by a semi and be perfectly functional afterward. I printed a manual about all the upgrades I made, so don’t worry about remembering all of that. It’s in the pocket of your jacket.”

Feinberg nods, fidgeting with the visor’s nylon strap. “That couldn’t have been cheap. Why waste it on me?”

Raddles lets out a laugh strangely reminiscent of a meow. “Waste? On you? You’re kidding, Fine. You and I are the only two people with the balls to refuse Fruitberries. Everyone else has struck some kind of deal with him.”

Feinberg raises an eyebrow. “So?”

Raddles clicks her tongue, tossing the rest of Feinberg’s effects at him. “So I have a vested interest in making sure you have the gear to protect yourself from that maniac’s schemes.”

Feinberg manages to scrabble his gear together in his arms before shrugging off his backpack to stow everything away. “You don’t want anything in return? Like my undying allegiance to you or secrets about the people I’ve worked with?”

“Jesus, no,” Raddles leans across the table, watching Feinberg zip up his bag. “Fruity B really got to you, huh?”

Feinberg bristles. “It’s not just him. You should know that as well as I do.”

Raddles’s expression is unreadable as she studies Feinberg in return. “I don’t remember you being this cautious.”

“Almost dying changes people,” Feinberg replies in lieu of answering Raddles’s silent question.

“Hey.” Raddles reaches across the table, jostling Feinberg’s shoulder. Her nails dig into his shirt. “I’m really thankful for that almost, brother. It’s hard to stand strong in the face of corruption, especially when you are at an extreme disadvantage.”

Feinberg manages a morose grunt of agreement. 

“I’m serious, Fine.” Raddles’s tone softens as she drops her aloof pretense. “I don’t want anything in return for the stuff I gave you. Even if you have to ally with Fruitberries in the future, for your own safety or otherwise, I won’t bust down your door asking for it back. I just want you to be safe.”

Feinberg musters the courage to meet Raddles’s eyes. “I appreciate it. People have been asking me to step back. You know, stop healing people. Get a real job.” Feinberg runs his knuckles down the back of his neck, his fingers catching the collar of his shirt. “They say they’re concerned for my safety. I guess I’m concerned, too, but…”

“I get you,” Raddles rests her elbows on the table, placing her head in her hands. Her catlike ears swivel to face Feinberg. “It’s bigger than just one person. You don’t do what you do because it’s lucrative. You do it because if you don’t, innocent lives get caught in the crossfire. Even if you die in the line of duty, yours is just one more death in the endless parade of bloodshed.”

A pang of an indescribable emotion reverberates in Feinberg’s chest, aggravating the wound in his stomach. He winces, stumbling into the table.

Raddles places a hand on Feinberg’s arm, steadying him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Feinberg exhales a tense breath once the pain abates. “No, it’s not you. My power, it, ah, negates the effects of painkillers.”

Raddles lets out a low whistle. “That’s hardcore as fuck.”

Feinberg laughs. “That’s the first time anyone’s described it like that.”

Raddles grins, flashing her fangs. “Figured you’d had enough pity already.”

Feinberg nods. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Raddles hums, harmonizing with the purr in the back of her throat. “You should get home. Not that I would hate to catch up some more, but you never know who’s watching. The longer you stay, the more suspicious the both of us look.”

Feinberg is thankful Raddles didn’t mention how awful he must appear, what with his exhaustion evident in the purplish bags beneath his eyes, not to mention the perpetual low-grade fever simmering beneath his skin.

Feinberg nods again, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Thank you, Rad. It was nice seeing you again.”

Raddles waves him off. “Text me if you need anything. Don’t be a stranger.”

Feinberg arrives home at around eleven thirty later that morning, stumbling into his apartment to an unexpected sight.

Couriway stands in the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest. He spots Feinberg and slams something against the counter. “Why aren’t you taking your medication?”

Feinberg blinks at the unopened bottle on the counter. He glances up at Couriway tiredly. “You get fired or something?”

“I came home for lunch,” Couriway snaps, surprising Feinberg. “You got new pills in the mail today and I couldn’t help but notice the first refill was full.”

“Right.” Feinberg brushes past Couriway, climbing the stairs.

Couriway races past Feinberg, taking the stairs two at a time and cornering Feinberg once he reaches the landing. 

Feinberg stares at his roommate, his eyes half-lidded. He gestures at the hallway Couriway is blocking. “Can I go to bed?”

Couriway fixes Feinberg with a stern look. “When you answer my question.”

Feinberg grits his teeth. “I don’t have to answer shit. Don’t make me push you down the stairs.”

Couriway scoffs. “I’d like to see you try. Look at you. You can barely stand up straight.”

Feinberg stifles a groan. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“No,” Couriway says, shaking his head. “What is it? Are you running some kind of underground drug ring?”

Sort of.

“No.” Feinberg is already exhausted from his earlier outing. He’d sooner walk back out the door than entertain this conversation. “It's nothing like that.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m secretly a supervillain,” Feinberg deadpans, straightening his posture. “Sorry you had to find out this way.”

Couriway blinks, his expression complex. “Fein, I’m serious. Do the drugs not work? I can get you a different kind.”

“Save your effort,” Feinberg mutters. “They work fine. I just don’t need them.”

Couriway stares at Feinberg like he has two heads. “What? I saw your—I saw your file. There’s no way that doesn’t hurt.”

“I have a high pain tolerance,” Feinberg says, shrugging. “Barely notice it.”

Naturally, Feinberg finds himself lying again. Mostly. Feinberg can tolerate more pain than the average person can, but even he has his limits, and his limits are probably on the pavement somewhere in that dreadful alley.

Couriway shuts his eyes, letting out a breath. “Fein, I’m sorry, but you give me no other choice.”

Before Feinberg can open his mouth to ask what Couriway is yapping about, the side of Couriway’s hand connects with his stomach.

It’s a soft touch, but pain explodes in Feinberg’s gut anyway, uncaring of Feinberg’s pride.

“Fuck,” Feinberg hisses. Trembling hands grip the railing to avoid falling to his knees.

The pain burns out quickly, but the tears at the corner of Feinberg’s eyes have given enough away to his astonished roommate.

Giving up on maintaining his composure, Feinberg rasps between ragged breaths. “What the hell, Couri? The fuck did I do to you?”

“You lied to me,” Couriway says softly, his eyes wide.

“Can you blame me?” Feinberg staggers to an upright position, shoving Couriway’s hand away when he tries to help. “You’re controlling me like a helicopter parent. What does it matter to you whether I take drugs or not?”

“Because it’s my fault,” Couriway admits, exasperated, before promptly pressing his lips into a thin line.

A hollow pang of guilt echoes in Feinberg’s ribcage, striking a sour note on the cracked marrow.

Couriway thinks Feinberg doesn’t remember their conversation in the hospital. How is Feinberg supposed to explain that he has already forgiven Couriway ten times over?

“This has nothing to do with you,” Feinberg says, hoping to ease Couriway’s hair-trigger nerves. “I just don’t need them.”

“Bullshit,” Couriway snaps, causing Feinberg to flinch in surprise. “You nearly passed out just now.”

“Yeah, because you hit me,” Feinberg fires back, struggling to keep his volume steady as exhaustion begins to creep up his spine again, urging Feinberg to say something he’ll regret.

Couriway folds his arms, scoffing. “I hardly touched you and you crumpled like a juice box. That’s not a sign of a man holding it together.”

“Why are you angry at me?” Feinberg lets some of the tension in his shoulders seep into his tone. “It’s my body. I can do whatever the hell I want with it.”

“I don’t want to see you in pain.” Couriway gestures to where Feinberg is still clutching his stomach. “It hurts me to see you hurting.”

Couriway isn’t going to relent. Feinberg needs to get out of this conversation now or things will get ugly. The last thing Feinberg wants is Couriway spilling the beans about his hero identity when Feinberg can’t pretend to forget about it.

“Fine, you want the truth?” Feinberg glares at Couriway, hoping his wavering voice doesn’t give him away. “I’m saving them. I don’t have health insurance and just because Icarus and his cronies footed the bill this time doesn’t mean I’ll get that lucky again.”

To Feinberg’s credit, his story isn’t a complete lie. He doesn’t want to waste expensive medicine on his ungrateful intolerant body, but Feinberg can’t spare a shred of honesty about his power, even if it’s not indicative on its own.

The sole downside of this half-truth is that Couriway will only blame himself more, if the wounded look in his eyes is any indication. Feinberg will have to work around that.

“I’d pay for you ag—against all odds,” Couriway stammers.

Feinberg pretends not to notice his roommate’s Freudian slip.

“With what salary?” Feinberg leans against the railing. It creaks under his weight. “You were begging me for money two weeks ago. You live in this dump.” Feinberg gestures to the peeling wallpaper on his other side. “You’re not in a position to pay for my fast-food order.”

Couriway stares at the ugly wallpaper behind Feinberg. “I— I have savings.”

Couriway is really bad at this lying thing. Feinberg thought his own acting was lackluster.

“Don’t you get it, Couri? I can’t rely on other people’s charity for everything. What if you need that money? If something happens, I should be able to dig myself out of it.”

Couriway only says one word, but the question renders Feinberg speechless. “Why?”

Feinberg never thought about the why before. Only the how. How he’s going to get through the next day, month, year. To him, the why never mattered because no one was around to ask.

The truth—the real why—settles deep in Feinberg’s gut, ice cold and chilling his body from the inside out.

Shivering, Feinberg’s thoughts wander to the dog on the side of the road. Feinberg remembers that dog so clearly, trembling in the pouring rain, rounded eyes glistening with hope when it looked up at Feinberg.

On the brink of death, that dog believed in Feinberg. In the warmth of his arms and the safety of his raincoat.

The dog knew its end was near, but in spite, or maybe because of that, it trusted Feinberg. It crawled across Feinberg’s legs, deeming his lap a suitable place to die. In its last moments, the embrace of a stranger was better than being alone.

Then, Feinberg achieved the impossible. By what appeared to be blind faith in himself, Feinberg matched the image in his mind to reality.

Under the dim glow of a streetlight, Feinberg imagined one of the thousands of lives the dying animal could have lived had it not been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It deserved to be healthy and happy watching the rain from a living room window. Not bleeding to death in some teenager’s arms. 

He knew what he desired was impossible, but that didn’t stop Feinberg from squeezing his eyes shut and believing in the goodness of the world, finding a silver lining beneath the suffering.

You’re in a better place now, buddy, he’d whispered to the corpse of a new friend, wondering where to go with its body. He couldn’t just leave it.

Then, the corpse squirmed, whining. Feinberg opened his eyes and let go of the dog, flinching in surprise.

Moments earlier, the bull terrier was dead. Feinberg was sure of it. Its bones were shattered. It was over. There was never any other possible outcome.

Yet, there the dog stood on stable legs, not a scratch grazing its soaked fur. It looked about as shocked as Feinberg was.

Feinberg staggered to his feet, the blood beneath his sneakers washed away by the rain. He looked at his hands. His fingertips were red and aching.

That night, Feinberg performed a miracle. Not the revival of a fleeting soul, but rather a rewrite of fate. Had Feinberg chosen to keep walking and let nature take its course, he never would have discovered the road less traveled. He wouldn’t have gone on to heal the skin and spirits of countless people.

Had he not performed a miracle that day, Feinberg wouldn’t regret his decision. It was worth it. Every second of sorrow he endured was worth the heartbeat of hope in those round, innocent eyes.

So why—why does Feinberg not have hope, too? Why is Feinberg convinced no one will come to his aid?

Feinberg takes a sharp, but quiet breath. “Who helps the heroes when they’re in trouble?”

Couriway shoots Feinberg a judicious look. “What does that have to do with you?”

Feinberg watches Couriway’s expression carefully. “What if Icarus was the one bleeding out in that alley? Who would he call on to fly him to the hospital?”

Couriway’s eyes flick to the ceiling, then the floor. “I don’t know, another hero? I don’t understand how that’s relevant.”

“And if that hero ends up the same way? How many will they send?”

Couriway’s brow scrunches behind his round glasses. “Are you implying you’re a superhero, Feinberg?”

“It follows the same logic,” Feinberg says. “I’m always the one fixing things. If—“ Feinberg glances warily at Couriway. “If I need to be fixed, I have to do it myself.”

“Not anymore,” Couriway replies quietly, avoiding Feinberg’s eyes. “You have me.”

“What are you going to do?” Feinberg finds himself asking even as Icarus’s words echo in his head. 

I was there. I was there when you got hurt. 

Feinberg gestures to the cell phone in Couriway’s shirt pocket. “Call another hero?”

That was me. I flew you to the hospital. 

Folding his arms, Feinberg continues with barely a breath. “What if there isn’t a next time? What if I don’t get a chance to call you? What if I’m just dead?”

Skies, I was so scared, man. I thought you were dead for sure.

“I’d do everything in my power to keep that from happening,” comes Couriway’s response. The words sound a lot more like they belong to Icarus, the hero, than Feinberg’s friend and roommate. “Even if it’s not much. I’ll try. Is that not enough?”

Thank you. I owe you everything.

“I don’t want that,” Feinberg mutters. “I don’t want you thinking you’re responsible for me.”

“I’m not responsible for you, but I’m not going to let you die if I can help it.” Couriway takes a step forward, the floorboards squealing beneath his suede loafers.

Feinberg looks up. He hadn’t noticed he’d been staring at the floor. 

The Couriway that stands before Feinberg carries the familiar determination that shone in Icarus’s eyes two weeks ago. The very same determination that saved a dying dog, once upon a time.

Feinberg averts his gaze. “If you were injured, would I be enough?”

Feinberg feels silly for even asking the question. Of course Feinberg would be enough—apparently, he can heal birth defects with his bare hands—but Couriway doesn’t know that.

A villain’s words echo in Feinberg’s head. 

Have some faith, Fine. 

 

You are extremely valuable to me.

 

I won’t let you die.

 

Value. That’s what Feinberg’s power is. 

Neither Couriway nor Icarus know Feinberg can heal. To him, Feinberg is as valuable as any other schmuck. 

So what gives? What makes Feinberg different?

Couriway doesn’t waste a second. “Duh, what kind of question is that? You’re the best I’ve got. You always manage to prepare for even the most whacked-out nightmare scenarios I never would have thought of. It’s like a superpower.”

Both Feinberg and Couriway recoil at Couriway’s poor choice of words. Feinberg winces, and Couriway looks away, traces of anxiety flickering in his eyes.

“You know what I mean,” Couriway says lamely.

Feinberg grips the railing, standing a little straighter. “You wouldn’t rather have a hero?”

Couriway shrugs. “What’s a hero going to do if they don’t have bandages?”

“What if…” Feinberg begins, aware that the question he is about to ask is monumentally stupid. “What if they could heal you?”

Couriway laughs, leaning against the wall. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Feinberg frowns. “Didn’t you say that healing is, quote, hardly a heroic power? What changed your mind?”

Couriway hums thoughtfully. “You did.”

Feinberg’s heart skips a beat. 

Feinberg plays it cool. Clearing his throat, he puts on his best casual tone. “I did? The fuck did I do?”

Nailed it.

Couriway studies his fingernails, an excellent performance of nonchalance that would have worked on anyone other than Feinberg. “When I heard about what happened, um, I thought to myself, man, a healer on scene could have helped you out a lot.”

Feinberg clicks his tongue. He’s relieved that his secret is safe, but Couriway still doesn’t understand. “You know I can’t afford that.”

“If you’d died, It wouldn’t have mattered how much debt you weren’t in,” Couriway says, as if his alter ego Icarus hadn’t paid for Feinberg’s medical bills for a reason. “Why didn’t you want a healer to help you?”

“Who told you that?” Feinberg asks, hoping to dodge the question. 

“Icarus did,” Couriway replies, intent on getting a proper answer from Feinberg.

Unfortunately for Couriway, Feinberg is never going to answer his question, and Feinberg knows exactly how to get out of this conversation.

“Oh, right,” Feinberg starts with just a twinge of rasp in his tone. “What a,” a longer, more labored breath. “What a fuckin snitch—“

Feinberg would rather not do this, but he needs to sell his performance, so he twists his shoulders just enough to tug tortuously on his wound.

Feinberg must have overdone it, because this time his knees don’t hesitate to give out on him, leaving him scrambling to catch himself on something.

Couriway’s arms are what come to his aid, one hand on his back, the other grasping Feinberg’s forearm.

Couriway is stronger than he looks. His grip alone pulls Feinberg back to his feet, and when Feinberg glances at his roommate’s worried expression, there isn’t a hint of effort showing on his face.

“You’re overdoing it,” Couriway says softly, as though it’s a suggestion and not a fact. “You should go lay down.”

Couriway is right, but not for the reason he thinks he is. Feinberg has been overdoing it for days. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since he knocked himself out over a month ago, and it’s catching up to him faster than it usually does. Feinberg has the gaping hole in his stomach to thank for that.

“I can’t,” Feinberg says, cursing the warble in his throat. “I can’t sit around here and do nothing.”

Couriway lets go, stepping back onto the landing. “I know, I felt that way too, um, when you were in the hospital, but what you need right now is rest—what?” Feinberg’s confusion must have shown on his face because Couriway stops himself mid-sentence.

“Nothing,” Feinberg says at first, but then he adds, tentatively, “why were you so worked up when I was the one injured?”

“I—I care about you.” Couriway’s response is defensive, but genuine. “Every time it was quiet, all I could hear was my phone’s dial tone.”

Feinberg doesn’t make the connection. He frowns, trying to make sense of Couriway’s words, when Couriway answers for him.

“When you called me, you hung up before I could ask if you were hurt.” Couriway averts his eyes. “I tried calling back like eight times but you didn’t pick up. All I could think was that… I was too late.”

Feinberg blinks. 

“Couri, if I had died, it wouldn’t have been your fault.” Feinberg shrugs, as though his heart didn’t just shatter into a million pieces.

Evidently, that was the wrong thing to say. Couriway’s eyes shine with tears, and Feinberg flinches inwardly.

“What does it matter whose fault it was? You’d still be dead!” Couriway is visibly frustrated, his hands curling at his sides—a behavior Feinberg recognizes from when Couriway is watching a tense moment on TV. “That’s not why I was worried about you, dude! You think I cared at all how I felt?”

“Well, yeah.” Feinberg’s voice squeaks at the worst possible moment. “You did say that you could find another roommate.”

“I meant that I don’t keep you around only to pay my rent,” Couriway says, running a hand through his hair. “It just came out wrong.”

Feinberg tilts his head, still not quite following. “What do you keep me around for, then?”

“What kind of question is that?” Couriway sputters, as though Feinberg had asked him about the color of the sky. “You’re my friend. I like having you around. You’re a god-damn ray of sunshine in my miserable life! Is that clear enough for you?”

Couriway’s volume has progressively increased over the past few minutes, and now it’s reached its peak, grating against Feinberg’s aching head. Feinberg holds up his hand, pleading for a time-out.

“I can hear you,” Feinberg mutters, hoping if he speaks quietly, the ringing in his ears will equalize. No dice.

Couriway’s expression scrunches in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

A few seconds later, Feinberg tries again to speak. “I didn’t think you liked me that much.” After a moment of awkward silence, Feinberg adds, “I didn’t think you’d go to those kinds of lengths, I guess.”

Couriway chews his lip. “You have no idea.”

Again, Feinberg is reminded that Couriway thinks Feinberg doesn’t remember their conversation in the hospital earlier.

Part of Feinberg was hoping that maybe Couriway would expect Feinberg to remember, and they could talk about it, about why Icarus chose to save Feinberg that night even though the powerless Feinberg he knew would have been a goner.

Without Feinberg’s power keeping him alive, he would have died, and Feinberg knows that some part of Couriway, even if it’s buried deep down, understands that.

Feinberg regaining consciousness is a miracle by normal standards, and Couriway knows that. Surely Icarus saw enough injuries and death to make the connection that Feinberg survived under extraneous circumstances.

Still, Couriway doesn’t ask Feinberg about it, but he’s dying to know. Feinberg can see it in his eyes.

“I’m going to bed,” Feinberg says, evidence of the pain in his stomach lingering in his strained tone. 

Thankfully, Couriway doesn’t comment on the break in Feinberg’s voice or question why Feinberg is going to bed at eleven in the morning. Instead, he helps Feinberg up the stairs, that awful look in his eyes bearing into Feinberg’s soul.

Feinberg can feel Couriway’s stare on him as he shuffles to his bedroom.

Couriway’s sneakers are getting worn out from all his running around lately.

He wasn’t supposed to be on patrol tonight, but he felt caged in the four walls of his apartment; his feathers twitched beneath his skin, itching to stretch out and take to the air. 

So, to give his poor feet a break, Couriway did just that. The moonlight on this side of town is enough to allow his wingspan to support his body weight.

Almost unconsciously, Couriway follows the path he took on the fateful night his roommate was mortally injured.

His mind races as wind whistles past his ears, ruffling his feathers. What could he have done differently? Did he overlook a faster route? If he got there any sooner, would it have changed things?

If he sent a different hero to the scene instead of rushing there himself, would Feinberg still trust him? Would they still be able to watch reality TV each night and point out how stupid the participants are?

Couriway’s feet hit the ground before he realizes where he landed. 

He finds himself in the spot he stood over a full month ago, his eyes wandering across the dark alley. He studies the dumpster and the dark streaks of dried blood crusted to the metal.

A strange sense of deja vu washes over Couriway, not because he’s been here before, but because footsteps approach from behind him, and he turns.

“Icarus,” a rough, sinister voice calls from the darkness. “You actually showed up. Just like the boss said you would.”

With the help of his infrared goggles, he can make out the masked faces of three people. None of which match the build and body language of Fruitberries, but all the organized crime groups in the area have more or less fallen under Fruitberries’s control.

“Fruitberries’s lackeys?” Couriway sneers, his hand finding the dagger attached to his belt. “You have a death wish or something?”

A spark flickers to life in the dark, becoming a flame that soars above Couriway’s head and lands in the dumpster.

Couriway spins around.

The dumpster catches fire instantly, erupting into a blazing inferno that singes Couriway’s skin, his breath catching in his throat as smoke fills the air. 

Couriway was certain the dumpster was empty. How on Earth—

Another stench makes itself known as Couriway takes an unconscious step toward the flames. 

Kerosine.

“Took you long enough, birdie,” one of the lackeys behind Couriway comments with a lilting giggle that makes Couriway’s gut churn. “Me and the boys were worried you’d never show. We’ll have to punish you for being so late.”

Couriway turns back to the group of lackeys, gritting his teeth. “Is this your attempt at trapping me? Seems a little lackluster.”

With a flap of his wings, Couriway is briefly in the air before landing deftly on a nearby telephone pole. 

Couriway wants to throw another smart-ass remark at the three men below. It’s especially important when dealing with Fruitberries’s cult that one never appears vulnerable to their jeering. 

Couriway, however, isn’t keen on playing with fire, so he holds his tongue and takes off in the opposite direction of his apartment. 

As Couriway tucks his wings to his back and retreats, stray sparks come too close to burning off some of his feathers.

Stubborn bastards. 

Ignoring the ache in his shoulders, Couriway forces himself to take more powerful wingstrokes, soaring above the cloud cover.

He’ll stay up here for a while, then head home. He’s never been in the air for that long before, but he’s no stranger to pushing his limits, either.

Couriway soars in wide circles as remnants of smoke in Couriway’s throat stir the nausea in his gut. Anxious, he steals a glance at the city below, ensuring no surprise grenades escape from the clouds.

Something the fire-wielding guy said echoes in Couriway’s mind.

You showed up. Just like the boss said you would.

Has Fruitberries been stationing his subordinates at the site of Feinberg’s attack for seven weeks?  

Took you long enough, birdie. We’ll have to punish you for being so late.

The way the fire-wielder spoke was the spitting image of Fruitberries’s carefully-crafted persona. It was so uncanny that only the supervillain himself could have taught them.

Bile rises in Couriway’s throat. Those weren’t just any subordinates. They were Fruitberries’s closest allies.

Fruitberries had no way of knowing when Icarus would return to the scene of the crime. He must have been dispatching his closest allies to wait for Icarus every night after the incident occurred nearly fifty days ago.

Fruitberries is batshit crazy. That much is common knowledge, but this? This is ludicrous, even for him.

What does Fruitberries want with Icarus?

Perhaps it’s not Icarus that Fruitberries is after.

Swallowing roughly, Couriway decides he needs to get home as soon as possible. 

Feinberg could be in grave danger at this very moment, and Couriway has been doing fuckall in the stratosphere for the last half-hour.

Cursing, Couriway dips beneath the cloud layer, searching the city as soon as it comes into view. Nothing appears out of the ordinary.

Upon hovering closer to the ground, Couriway detects no trace of the lackeys he encountered earlier. 

Couriway’s wings scream in protest, but he needs their speed as he races home. He can’t risk walking when Feinberg could be hurt, or worse.

Did Fruitberries station people at the scene of the crime just to distract Icarus long enough to finish the job they started forty-eight days ago?

Adrenaline rushes into Couriway’s veins, soothing the sting in his shoulderblades and breathing a second wind beneath his wings. 

Couriway makes it across town in record time, his lungs aching as they struggle to compensate for his racing heartbeat.

He circles over his apartment building, letting out a stunted sigh of relief when he spots no trace of fire anywhere on the property. 

It seems that Fruitberries hasn’t yet figured out where he lives.

After confirming that, at least, his apartment isn’t burning to the ground, Couriway glides to the empty parking lot across the street, stumbling into a graceless landing.

His legs feel like jelly. He can barely verify that his feet are still attached to him, wiggling his toes in his sneakers.

Uncaring of the undoubtedly disgusting substances spattered across the pavement, Couriway sits on the ground, placing his head in his hands.

Remind him to never fly that long again.

A rustle from behind Couriway startles him to his feet, but a sharp pain in his ankle causes him to stumble, diverting his attention for what can only be a split second.

When Couriway looks up from the ground, he’s staring down the barrel of a handgun.

Couriway’s thoughts struggle to catch up to reality, a delirious laugh escaping his lips.

Get it together, Icarus, Couriway admonishes his display of weakness. You’re the Winged Hero. You don’t feel fear.

“Trying to rob a superhero?” Couriway quips, cursing the waver in his tone. “That’s bold, I’ll give you that.”

“Relax, birdie. We’re not here to rob you.”

Couriway freezes in place. A cold sheen of sweat dampens his forehead.

“You losers again?” Couriway forces a smile, though on his lips, it feels like more of a grimace. “Alright, I’ll bite. What do you want?”

“Straight to the point. I like that.” The masked grunt holding the pistol is a different one from earlier, but their tones are eerily identical to each other.

Couriway tries to disguise his sharp intake of breath with a laugh. He is not afraid. He does not feel fear.

“What we want from you is simple.” The barrel of the gun lurches forward, jabbing Couriway’s forehead. “Tell us everything you know about the man you rescued in the alley.”

Couriway nearly gags. The gun to his head is nothing new, but the fact that Fruitberries wants information about Feinberg sends a full-body shudder down his spine.

“I’m not in the business of compromising protocol,” Couriway says, tone deathly even. “You’d do well to know I’m not afraid of death, either.”

“Fair enough.” Someone behind Couriway speaks up, but before he can muster a coherent thought, a sharp spike of agony lances through his back, square between his wings. The familiar singe of fire licks at the hair on the back of his neck.

Couriway’s knees buckle, but he remains standing by sheer force of will. Icarus does not crumble that easily. A little fire isn’t enough to force him to his knees.

Struggling to keep his breath steady, Couriway grits his teeth. “You.”

Fire-wielder is here, along with who knows how many others, just outside Couriway's apartment building.

Dangerously close to his injured, defenseless roommate.

Even as the gravity of his predicament dawns on Couriway, he keeps up a brave face. He and fire don’t get along well; Fruitberries and his lackeys know this and are prepared to use it to their advantage any way possible.

“Me,” Fire-wielder jeers, and Couriway can hear their wicked grin. “Ready to talk now?”

“No,” Couriway snarls as someone seizes his wrists and wrenches them behind his back. “You could burn me to a crisp and I wouldn’t say shit to you scum.”

“Sounds good to me.” Fire-wielder doesn’t spare Couriway a moment to catch his breath before a flash of orange appears in his peripheral vision, accompanied by a scalding flare of pain between his shoulders, searing through his skin and creeping up his feathers.

A guttural scream rips itself from Couriway’s throat, but it doesn’t reach his ears. All his senses narrow to the scorched nerves where his skin was.

This time, Couriway’s knees hit the ground with a dull ache compared to the fire spreading across his back.

Beneath the suffocating ash and soot, Couriway detects the telltale stench of kerosine. If he weren’t trained in withstanding intense nausea, he would have puked his guts out by now.

“Feel like singing now, birdie?” A voice cackles from above, a cruelty to their tone that Couriway never thought possible before tonight.

“I-“ Couriway cuts himself off to let out a breath that morphs into a choked growl as smoke crawls across his shoulders and smothers his mouth. “Meant what I said.”

“Suit yourself.”

Couriway's vision whites as the distinct sensation of severed feathers engulfs his wings. He was too distracted to retract them.

He was attacked so soon after he landed that he hadn’t thought to, and now it will be his undoing. 

One momentary lapse in judgement has ruined his career forever.

No matter—he is Feinberg’s last line of defense, and if the secret of Feinberg’s identity must die alongside Icarus, so be it.

Couriway can feel his consciousness slipping from him, whether from the pain or lack of oxygen, he isn’t sure, nor does he care. 

His upper back has long since melded into a blaze of agony, feathers indistinguishable from flesh as they go up in flames.

Someone says something, but Couriway’s ability to understand words was the first to leave him. They could be goading him into staying awake under threat of death, not that Couriway would care. 

Without his wings, he’s as good as dead anyway.

He doesn’t care how it happens—all he desires is for the pain to go away.

For a moment, it abates.

In the next moment, Couriway is startled awake with the sensation of freezing water soaking his hair, pouring down his face and trickling down his throat. 

Couriway gasps for air, shivering beneath his dampened clothes. His eyes dart across the pavement in front of him, but the parking lot is enveloped entirely in smoke, rendering his glasses useless.

Somewhere between his passing out and now, Couriway’s goggles were removed from his eyes, but not his glasses.

On the bleakly dim side, the water put out the fire tearing across Couriway’s back. The pain doesn’t ebb, but it’s still a relief to be rid of the heat. 

“There he is!” A voice taunts from somewhere to Couriway’s left. “You know what? Since you’ve been such a trooper with those nasty burns, how about we cut a deal?” 

Couriway may be on the brink of a heart attack from the torture he endured, but he still has the sense to refuse, shaking his head with the little strength he has left.

“No? At least hear me out. What if I told you I could bring your wings back?”

“I’d call you a filthy liar,” Couriway croaks. All of the venom in his tone has gone up in smoke along with his feathers, but he still manages to bite back. It’s all he can do.

“Boss has access to a healer that can work miracles. He can get you back to crime-fighting shape in no time, s’long as you answer our questions.” 

Something clatters to the ground in front of Couriway, and it takes a moment for Couriway’s pain-addled mind to identify it.

Even in the dim glow of flickering streetlights, Couriway could recognize those colors anywhere. 

A pair of ski goggles lies in front of Couriway, framed in pink and blue.

Fine? Fine is working with Fruitberries?

Another voice in front of Couriway speaks up, low and yet whimsical. “I believe you two are acquainted, actually.”

Couriway swipes at the drenched hair sticking to his forehead, taking note that his hands are unbound. “So, I’m supposed to take your word for it?”

“You got any better options, birdie?”

“I told you.” Couriway’s thoughts blur together. He can barely think, let alone speak, but the words come easily to him. “It takes more than this to break me.”

It doesn’t. It’s probably the most egregious lie Couriway has ever told, but if it keeps Feinberg safe, he can make believe.

To Couriway’s surprise, there’s no caustic reply. He braves a glance up, but the smoke is still too thick to make anything out.

With no conversation to focus on, the agony returns in full force, a scathing reminder that Couriway will never fly again. 

Suppressing a shudder, Couriway reaches an unsteady hand forward, weakly gripping the strap of Fine’s supposed goggles, and with the final embers of his energy, he chucks the goggles over the ten-foot fence lining the parking lot.

“Eat,” Couriway rasps. “Shit.”

An enraged cry pierces the air as a steel-soled boot connects with Couriway’s shoulders, igniting a flare of agony that leaves Couriway wailing, falling forward. He manages to break his fall with his hands, the ache in his palms and forearms eclipsed by the phantom pain in his non-existent wings. 

He must have been crying before, but this is the first moment Couriway notices the tears trickling down his ashen cheeks, as if the pool collecting between his hands could help him put out the flames of agony. 

By some miracle, Couriway picks up the distant footsteps of an unknown person before they can ambush him; it’s a slow stride, gradually approaching from the smoke as though to conceal their presence.

Deliriously, Couriway finds himself hoping the mystery stranger will save him, take him to a hospital in their arms and save his life.

A choked sob catches in Couriway’s throat. How far Icarus has fallen.

It’s hard to see through the billowing clouds of smoke and the tears staining Couriway’s glasses, but the soft glow of a pinkish-blue visor is a dead giveaway of the figure’s identity.

Fine is here. The vigilante Couriway has been tracking for the better part of two months has appeared in front of him, mere moments after Icarus was murdered. 

If Couriway had any humanity left, he would laugh at the irony.

If the rumors of his alliance with Fruitberries are true, Fine is probably here to drag Couriway to Fruitberries’s base of operations, never to see the light of day again.

But if they aren’t true, a quiet voice in the corner of Couriway’s mind whispers. He stamps it out.

Squinting, Couriway makes out the shadowed figure of his assailant. Couriway’s assailant doesn’t seem to notice Fine approaching from the smoke. Either that, or they’ve been expecting Fine. 

Fine stops behind Couriway’s assailant, and for a moment Couriway holds his breath, waiting for someone to speak. 

No one says a word. Instead, Fine raises an arm and whacks Couriway’s assailant in the back of the head with his elbow in a blur of motion, and they crumple to the ground, unconscious.

Fine says nothing, motionlessly studying the body at his feet. After a moment, he kneels, carefully wrapping his gloved hands around the stranger’s ankles and slowly drags them out of sight, his silhouette disappearing into the smoke once more.

Couriway is about to call for him before the mysterious vigilante reappears, his stride cautious as if Couriway at all resembles the acclaimed hero Icarus once was. 

Couriway braces himself for his new life, a flightless bird caged in a tiger’s lair.

At least he kept Feinberg safe.

Exhausted and delirious from pain, Couriway isn’t certain he’s not imagining Fine kneeling next to him and removing one of his gloves.

If you were to ask him later, Couriway would swear he heard Fine’s breath hitch.

Fine reaches for Couriway’s back, his charred feathers, and Couriway instinctively jerks away. Fine steadies him with a firm hand on his shoulder. 

Couriway freezes. What is he doing?

Couriway isn’t in a position to resist, so he screws his eyes shut, struggling to keep his tears at bay.

Fine’s fingertips brush the ends of what’s left of Couriway’s feathers. Couriway flinches, inhaling sharply.

Fine gently squeezes Couriway’s shoulder, as if communicating something.

Is it a warning? A threat? An apology?

Couriway’s mind swims. Is Fine as sick in the head as Fruitberries? Is he enjoying Couriway’s pain? Is this who he really is?

Couriway doesn’t want to imagine what his back may look like. His feathers protected his skin about as well as gasoline would, nevermind the, well, gasoline.

“Please, just kill me or knock me out or something.” Couriway doesn’t know what he’s saying, but the words escape his lips anyway. “You don’t have to do this.” 

If he showed this much weakness to Fruitberries or his allies, he’d only be making things worse for himself. Yet there’s something about Fine that grants Couriway a fleeting glimmer of hope, and he clings to that hope like a lifeline. 

It may as well be.

Fine’s hand skirts around the edges of Couriway’s burns, agonizingly gentle. Is he hesitating?

What is Fine thinking about? Is he here to take up the mantle, deciding how best to torture Couriway? Tears slip through Couriway’s scrunched eyelids at the thought of more agony.

Fine’s hand stops at Couriway’s shoulder blades, just above where most of the damage is concentrated. 

Couriway can feel his trembling turn to shudders, but he is powerless to stop it. He swallows a sob, his fingernails carving small crescents into his palms. 

Fine’s fingertips press against Couriway’s skin, and Couriway must be imagining things, because his skin heats up beneath Fine’s touch. Couriway didn’t know he could still feel sensations there.

He can’t have fire powers… Can he? Is the healing thing just a farce so Fine can get close to injured people before…

Couriway holds his breath, hoping he’ll pass out before Fine can do too much damage.

Get up and leave me. Couriway wishes he could say. Please, just go away. Get out of here.

“Please,” is what comes out of Couriway’s mouth instead, the rest of the words dying in his throat.

The edges of agony on Couriway’s back begin to itch, and Fine squeezes Couriway’s shoulder again.

What does that mean? What are you trying to tell me?

Just as Couriway senses his consciousness slipping for the second time that night, the itch turns to a cool, numbing sensation. 

Couriway’s withheld breath bursts from his mouth. Instinctively, he gasps for air, uncaring of the lingering smoke.

The numbness spreads across Couriway’s back until every last ember of pain snuffs out. Hot tears of relief spill from Couriway’s eyes as he pries them open. The tension melts from his body, his shoulders slumping forward before Fine gently pulls them back.

“Thank you,” Couriway rasps, the ash lining his throat throttling his voice.

Fine doesn’t respond, his grip on Couriway’s shoulders tightening subtly.

Couriway doesn’t know how long he sits on the concrete, tears running down his cheeks, before sensation returns to his back. 

Couriway’s feathers tickle his skin. The brisk night air settles on the back of his neck, cascading down his shoulders and rustling his feathers.

The pain is completely gone. His skin isn’t numb; it’s as if the burns had never happened in the first place.

You healed me?

That’s not possible.

Couriway is certain his burns must have been at least of the third degree. Couriway’s muscles must have been damaged. Perhaps even his bones. A team of healers could barely do anything to help that, let alone a man by himself.

A single healer can’t repair such widespread, complex burns without risking life and limb with power-enhancing drugs, yet no one but Fine stands in front of Couriway, if a little unsteady on his feet, and Couriway’s wings feel good as new, if not better than before.

Couriway recalls the lilting words of the criminal who severed his wings.

What if I told you I could bring your wings back? Boss has access to a healer that can work miracles. He can get you back to crime-fighting shape in no time.

Couriway concentrates, his fingers twitching into fists as he folds his wings flat against his back and retracts them into his shoulderblades.

Couriway can’t believe what’s happening. Fine hadn't used some crazy tech to fool Couriway into thinking his wings were healed. He was able to retract them, which proves they’re perfectly intact.

Couriway swallows the blood in his mouth. His wings were plucked and burned, his flesh and bone charred to ash, then a complete stranger came along and with one touch, erased it as if the torture Couriway had endured was a bad dream.

It’s as though Fine hadn’t healed anything at all. As though instead of reconstructing something from nothing, he’d reversed the hands of time, back to before Couriway was harmed in the first place.

But that’s even less possible than a healer with extraordinary prowess. If there were someone capable of reversing time like that, at least the people at the top—at Icarus’s level—would know.

Icarus. 

Couriway had been so focused on the pain, he hadn’t realized that Fine saved his career, too.

Icarus can fly again.

Blinking a mixture of tears, sweat, and ash from his eyes, Couriway glances up at the man who saved his life.

Fine fidgets with his equipment, sliding his glove back on his left hand. 

Is he left handed? That could narrow down Couriway’s search.

More importantly, the rumors are true. Fine is a healer. One hell of a good one, at that.

One question remains unanswered.

Fine turns and begins to walk away, his gait staggered.

“Wait!” Couriway calls after him, his voice hoarse from screaming. 

Fine’s feet halt, but he doesn’t turn around. 

Couriway tries to clear his throat to no avail. The lingering smoke clings to his ragged breath. “Why did you do it? Why—“ Couriway coughs. “What did you get out of this? Are you with them?”

Fine doesn’t answer. He continues walking and disappears into the darkness without a sound.

“Thank you,” Couriway whispers after him. “I’ll repay your kindness one day.”

Feinberg should not be doing this. The aching wound in his stomach hasn’t healed yet and here he is about to jump into a two-on-one.

All Feinberg can see is fire. Moments ago, peering out his bedroom window, he could see three dark figures. He could see the silhouette of a man, hear his screams of agony, and now the whole parking lot is engulfed in flames and smoke. 

Crime isn’t rare in the area, but agonized screaming like someone is getting murdered is uncommon. If there’s anything Feinberg despises, it’s listening to someone suffer. He couldn’t stand by and let someone die if he could help it.

So Feinberg finds himself hopping the ten-foot fence of an abandoned parking lot, his breath ragged against his new mask as it filters the smoke from the air.

If Feinberg hadn’t gotten new gear from Raddles earlier, he would be fucked. Even more fucked than he is now, which is still pretty fucked. No amount of fancy gear can make up for his lack of combat experience. He can only hope the element of surprise is enough.

The thermal imaging feature in Feinberg’s new goggles shows Feinberg where most of the fire is concentrated: at the far end of the parking lot.

Once he sneaks close enough to see without the help of his visor, Feinberg charges at a vaguely human-shaped silhouette, raising his good arm and caving someone’s forehead in with his elbow. The figure collapses to the ground and the air temperature drops.

This dumbass must be responsible for the fire. 

Feinberg kneels, careful to keep his spine straight, and lifts the fire-guy by their ankles before dragging them to the other end of the parking lot. It takes longer than he would have liked, but the last thing Feinberg wants is tearing a stitch or two.

Fanning away the dissipating smoke, Feinberg approaches the figure knelt on the ground. Stealing a glance over his shoulder, Feinberg can’t make out any other heat signatures.

Third dude must have bailed. Smart move.

The smoke gradually clears, revealing the figure knelt on the ground. 

Feinberg bites back a curse. 

Before him is Feinberg’s roommate, Couriway, and professional hero Icarus, shaking like a chihuahua on crack as he braces himself against the pavement with his arms. Tears drip from his soot-streaked glasses into small puddles near his splayed fingers.

Feinberg’s breath catches in his throat around the swear he swallowed earlier. His hands tremble at his sides as his thoughts stall.

So, his hunch was correct. The tormented screaming he heard from his bedroom window earlier belonged to his roommate after all.

His heart rate climbing, Feinberg kneels next to Couriway, stifling a gasp when he spots blackened feathers and skin beneath the charred remains of Couriway’s jacket.

Shit. This is getting worse by the second.

Feinberg reaches for one of Couriway’s blackened feathers, hoping to examine it, but freezes when Couriway lets out a pained gasp, curling into himself.

Feinberg almost mumbles an instinctive apology before catching himself. He opts to gently squeeze Couriway’s shoulder instead, hoping it’s enough to get his point across.

Directing his attention back to triage, Feinberg realizes belatedly that fire-guy must have burned off Couriway’s wings. 

Feinberg is familiar with Icarus’s power, likely more than Icarus himself. Simply put, there exists two states of Icarus’s body: winged and wingless. Icarus can switch freely between them with the caveat that he can’t retract his wings if they get too damaged. It’s kind of like trying to shove a cube into the cylinder hole of a toy box—hypothetically, Icarus could switch back with enough willpower, but his wings would never be the same afterward.

Icarus’s feathers would only appear among the carnage if his wings had been summoned when he was attacked, the injury preventing Icarus from retracting them.

Feinberg swallows dryly without meaning to, his throat closing on its own. 

Feinberg can only draw one conclusion: Icarus’s wings were severed and burned to ash.

Taking a quick glance at the rest of Couriway, Feinberg can’t identify any other injuries other than a few scratches likely obtained in the heat of battle.

A hardened block of fury settles in Feinberg’s gut.

This was a targeted attack.

Feinberg’s eyes skate over the gruesome state of Couriway’s back again. He runs his hand along the surface of the intact skin, tracing the shape of Couriway’s burns.

The damage is far worse than Feinberg initially thought. Couriway’s skin is nearly gone and his muscles are charred to black. Despite the gore, not a single speck of blood can be seen. It must have been so quick that the severed blood vessels were cauterized instantly.

Feinberg will omit the rest of the gory details, but it serves to tell Feinberg something crucial: this is the work of someone intimately familiar with their power. Someone whose control far outmatches Feinberg’s clumsy approach.

Feinberg stifles a frustrated scream. What the fuck did he get himself into?

Feinberg isn’t certain he’ll be able to heal something that no longer exists. He isn’t certain he can heal at all anymore, but he has to try. He owes Couriway that much.

Feinberg steels his nerves before tearing his glove from his left hand, flexing his fingers in preparation.

“Please, just kill me or knock me out or something.” Couriway’s voice trembles in tandem with the rest of this body. “You don’t have to do this.”

Feinberg suppresses a shudder. Couriway’s lips are moving; words are coming out of his mouth, but his voice doesn’t belong to him. The threadbare, timid rasp in Feinberg’s ears sounds nothing like the man he’d come to know.

How are you still conscious? Feinberg has half the mind to ask, followed quickly by another question. Then another. Why wouldn’t I heal you? Do you not recognize me?

Dozens of questions begin to crowd Feinberg’s mind, each begging to be voiced.

Who did this? What did they say to you? What did they do to you? Why didn’t you fight back?

Instead, Feinberg stays silent. He can’t trust himself not to say something he may regret. His sense of reason is dulled by the fury in his heart; that’s a dangerous position to be in.

Feinberg’s eyes gloss over as he stares into the gaping wound where Icarus’s wings should be.

Whoever did this must have wanted it to hurt, and they got their wish.

Feinberg’s teeth sink into his lip, biting down so hard that blood begins to leak onto his tongue. He forces himself to tear his gaze from Couriway’s injuries, tamping down the rage swelling in his chest.

Focus, Fine. Focus.

Feinberg swallows the blood pooling in his mouth, clenching his jaw with so much force his teeth threaten to shatter. 

As if on cue, Couriway lets out a broken cry. “Please.”

Right, Feinberg thinks, his heartbeat stuttering as Couriway begins to shudder beneath his touch.

Feinberg’s right hand tenses around Couriway’s shoulder again as he presses gently against Couriway’s other shoulder with his opposite hand.

Feinberg closes his eyes, searching for the severed nerve endings and shutting them up.

Couriway gasps, his rigid posture slackening to jelly. His shoulders begin to tip forward before Feinberg steadies them with his right hand. 

Feinberg can’t let his left hand lose contact with Couriway or the pain will return in full force, possibly worse than before. Feinberg would rather die than let that happen. 

Focusing harder than he did on his med school exams, Feinberg channels every last ember of his power into his left hand. His fingertips turn an angry red, stinging as though he’d touched a hot iron. Ironically, this is a good sign.

Couriway mumbles something, but Feinberg can’t hear over the blood rushing in his ears.

Feinberg refuses to let go. He steadies his breathing before completing the connection with Couriway’s nervous system. Pain spreads from Feinberg’s hand to his forearm, creeping up to his shoulder like venom from a snake bite.

His arm begins to shake from strain, but Feinberg refuses to let go. Not until the pain is gone and Couriway is healed. He can handle it. He will handle it even if it’s the last thing he ever does with his power.

Feinberg senses his concentration slipping as his mind fills with fog. The sensation is similar to transfusing blood, if it were liters instead of a pint, not to mention that it hurts a hell of a lot more.

Feinberg grits his teeth impossibly harder. If he passes out here and his identity is uncovered, at the very least he wants Icarus to arrest him pain-free. 

Through scrunched eyelids, Feinberg watches his power rejoin sundered muscle, mending smoldering skin and returning  the feathers on Icarus’s neck to their original state, each golden and effervescent as the rest of Couriway.

As the agony coils around Feinberg’s heart, his blood rushing in his ears, he begins to reconstruct Couriway’s wings, following the blueprints his feathers left behind.

Feinberg can’t breathe. His lungs refuse to inflate as if they’d collapsed; Feinberg wouldn’t be surprised if they did. 

Joints snap into place, bones creaking as the skeleton of Icarus’s wings emerges from his shoulders.

If Feinberg were more lucid, he would guess that would hurt like a bitch if he hadn’t numbed Couriway’s nerves.

Tendrils of muscle snake around the framework Feinberg created.

Feinberg swears he can hear his blood vessels bursting beneath his skin. He doesn’t let go. His hand might be cauterized to Couriway’s shoulder by now.

Skin stretches across the muscle. Cartilage nestles beneath it.

Feinberg’s head is spinning. He can’t tell which way is up or down. Haze clouds his thoughts as hypoxia sets in. He doesn’t let go.

His body is engulfed in agony, as if he’d been set on fire, too. He can sense his heart racing even beneath layers of fatigue and tearing muscle.

Feinberg is going to die.

He doesn’t let go.

The feathers. Fix the fucking feathers and Feinberg can let go.

It’s too late, something whispers to Feinberg. Is it his own voice? Would he give up so easily?

Feinberg may not make it out of this alive, but Couriway will.

Feinberg relents to the consuming darkness, but he doesn’t let go.

Feinberg returns to the waking world with all the gentleness of a train wreck.

His eyes snap open, frantically scanning, searching for clues about what happened.

He doesn’t have to wait long, because the ache in Feinberg’s bones jogs his memory rather abruptly.

By some twist of fate, Feinberg’s left hand is still gripping Couriway’s shoulder. Every part of his hand is flushed bright red, except for his stark white knuckles. His palm and fingertips throb painfully in time with the thrum of his rapid heartbeat.

Feinberg scrapes some semblance of concentration together, checking Couriway’s vitals.

Couriway’s heart rate and breathing are sluggish, but otherwise normal. He hasn’t moved, either. 

Did Couriway pass out, too?

Blinking the spots out of his vision, Feinberg examines the wings he pulled out of thin air.

Feathers, check. Big fuck-off shadow blocking the only light source in the entire damn parking lot, check. They look normal to Feinberg, if a little smaller than he remembers. He chalks that up to lack of sunlight; he doesn’t have the strength to do anything about it, anyway.

Satisfied, Feinberg breathes a shaky sigh before he lets go.

Lightning, hotter than the fire that burned Icarus, shoots up Feinberg’s arm the moment his hand is no longer touching Couriway.

Feinberg swallows a shout, his teeth clamping down on his tongue with enough force to sever it if Feinberg isn’t careful. 

It’s eerily similar to the sensation Feinberg felt in his dream just before he woke up in the hospital, which itself is a reproduction of the bizarre experience Feinberg had when he healed Poundcake.

Looks like that little inconvenience is here to stay.

Feinberg stands, despite his better judgment, hoping to regain his strength out of thin air. Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen and instead Feinberg staggers forward, narrowly stepping around Icarus with all the grace of a chicken with its head cut off.

Feinberg shuts his eyes, stalling until the dizziness retreats to a tolerable level.

Pulling his glove back on, Feinberg turns away from Couriway, hoping to leave undetected.

“Wait!” Couriway calls after him, his voice in shreds.

Feinberg’s feet halt, his body disobeying his brain as he begs himself to keep walking. Feinberg’s chest aches as he contemplates dragging his roommate back to their shared apartment himself.

“Why did you do it?” Couriway gasps, coughing. “What did you get out of this? Are you with them?”

Feinberg takes a breath, ready to tell Couriway everything, right then and there, in the middle of a scorched parking lot. He imagines Couriway’s reaction as he discovers the enigmatic vigilante before him and his frail, defenseless roommate are one and the same. 

He’d like to think that Couriway would be relieved to know Feinberg wasn’t lying to him for some nefarious reason, but Feinberg knows his roommate too well to entertain that possibility. Couriway would be overcome with righteous anger and berate Feinberg into another coma, and then probably kick him out.

Still, it would be a weight lifted like none other. Contrary to what many may believe, Feinberg doesn’t like lying to people. He hates that it’s come to this. Every fiber of his being yearns to come clean right now and end this charade before it can get any more complicated.

Now isn’t the time. Things are only getting started. Icarus will need Fine more than Couriway needs Feinberg.

To calm his racing heart, Feinberg answers Couriway in his head as he ducks into a dark alley, out of sight.

I helped you because you helped me.

Feinberg is stirred awake by the screech of loose hinges, his eyelids cracking apart to watch his apartment door swing open, letting in a flood of amber-tinged light reflecting from the tacky yellow wallpaper lining the hallway.

Feinberg must have fallen asleep waiting for Couriway to come home.

Blinking the remains of sleep from his eyes, Feinberg sits up, watching the dark outline of his roommate shut the door, gradually sealing the light from the hallway out of the living room.

Couriway fumbles in the dark before the dim overhead lights flicker on, the old circuits buzzing to life.

Couriway stands in the doorway for a moment that drags on so long Feinberg wonders if he’d accidentally ordered a life-size Icarus statue while blackout drunk one night. 

Except Feinberg doesn’t drink. Hell, he may pick up the habit after tonight.

Couriway’s hair is damp and tinged grey with ash, his glasses having met a similar fate, the lenses foggy as though the fire had tempered the glass beyond repair. The metal frames curling around his ears are warped and drooping. His eyes are bloodshot, carrying the embers of pain Feinberg has become intimately familiar with.

Feinberg clears his throat. “You look like hell.”

Couriway startles, his head snapping in Feinberg’s direction, his jaw dropping slightly open in surprise. “Fein! I could say the same to you.”

Feinberg glances at Couriway’s shoes, dusted with soot, before looking back up at his roommate. “Did you get into a fight with a chimney?”

Couriway glares at Feinberg. He’s probably thinking something like ‘you piece of shit, look at what I had to go through to keep your ass safe,’ which Feinberg can sympathize with.

Feinberg hates giving his roommate a hard time after everything he went through earlier that night, but if Feinberg suddenly started acting all nice and gentle, Couriway would undoubtedly get suspicious. 

So, Feinberg is forced to keep up the act he started this morning, pretending to be blissfully unaware of the torment Couriway has endured, effectively convincing his roommate that Feinberg is a major asshole.

Such is life. At least Feinberg knows the truth, if the throbbing pain in his left arm is any indication.

“No.” Couriway doesn’t break his uncomfortably prolonged eye contact with Feinberg. “Some guy thought setting off illegal fireworks in the parking lot across the street was a good idea. As you can see,” Couriway gestures to himself. “I got caught in the crossfire.”

Pride swells in Feinberg’s chest. A decently crafted lie from Couriway’s mouth. Feinberg thought he may never see the day.

Feinberg nods. “So that’s what I heard earlier. Are you okay?”

At Feinberg’s question, Couriway goes quiet. Something flashes in his eyes that he doesn’t bother to hide as he takes a tentative seat in the armchair across from Feinberg before slumping against the knock-off leather.

“Yeah,” Couriway says finally, locking his fingers together, staring down the tattered rug beneath the equally neglected coffee table. “Others weren’t so lucky.”

Feinberg wills the images of charred feathers and scorched flesh from his mind. 

“This side of town isn’t for the faint of heart,” Feinberg jokes, but his attempt at humor falls flat as pain creeps into his tone.

Fuck, his arm hurts. It burns, even. The dull ache from before had ignited into a searing sensation deep in Feinberg’s nerves while he was distracted.

Gritting his teeth, Feinberg places his arm in his lap, his right hand finding his left wrist and squeezing, digging his fingernails into the back of his left hand.

Can’t let Couri see, Feinberg repeats in his head even as his hands shake, his knuckles turning white.

“Are you okay?” Couriway whispers, the fake leather armchair squeaking as he stands. “Is it your stomach again?”

“Yeah,” Feinberg hisses, breathless. His heart skips a beat at how strained his voice sounds. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look or sound fine,” Couriway says quietly, kneeling in front of Feinberg at the base of the couch.

“Speak for yourself,” Feinberg grits out, his blood boiling beneath his fingers. How badly he wishes he could silence his own nerves like he did to Couriway. He would give up his power for good if it meant he could ease the pain in his arm even a small amount.

Feinberg’s eyes blearily follow Couriway’s hand as he reaches up to feel Feinberg’s forehead. “Jesus Christ, Fein, you’re burning up.”

Black spots begin to gather at the edges of Feinberg’s vision. His head simultaneously weighs a shit ton and nothing at all. He curls into himself as tears prick at the edges of his eyes.

“Feinberg.” Couriway’s voice sounds as though it’s coming through layers of cotton stuffed tight in Feinberg’s ears. “Feinberg, talk to me.”

Feinberg shuts his eyes, wishing with agony-induced delirium that Fruitberries had aimed for his left arm instead of his stomach. He’s vaguely aware of the string of curses leaving his lips.

Feinberg’s world narrows to nothing but the nerves in his left arm, alight with pain slowly creeping up his bicep and shoulder.

Then it blinks out.

When Feinberg comes to, he’s lying on his side, Couriway’s hands on his shoulders as his roommate’s worried expression relaxes subtly.

“Good lord, finally.” Couriway lets go of Feinberg, crossing his arms over his chest. “You scared the shit out of me, you know that?”

“Sorry,” Feinberg mutters. The pain in his arm has mostly subsided, reduced to the dull ache it once was. The noise in his skull, however, has only increased in volume.

“You’d better be.” Couriway stands, stepping around Feinberg to sit on the opposite side of the couch. Feinberg watches Couriway remove his glasses, massaging his brow with trembling fingers.

“You’ve been through too much tonight,” Feinberg says, in a rare moment of honesty permitted only by the fatigue ravaging his mind, eating away at Feinberg’s attempts to think. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay after some sleep.”

“You shouldn’t be in this much pain,” Couriway says, and it’s only after a moment of intense concentration that Feinberg realizes he’s shivering beneath the blanket Couriway must have draped over him while he was briefly unconscious.

“It was just a bad flare-up,” Feinberg replies instead of arguing, because Couriway is right: he shouldn’t be in this much pain. “I doubt it will happen again.”

If it does, it won’t be anywhere near you.

“Feinberg, you passed out,” Couriway tells him, exhaustion seeping into his tone. He places his glasses back on his nose, turning to look Feinberg in the eyes. “That’s not normal.”

Feinberg tears his gaze away, staring down the faux leather beneath him. For once, he doesn’t have the strength to argue. After everything that transpired tonight, Feinberg desires only to sleep for the next six weeks.

“You still aren’t taking your medication?” Couriway’s words are phrased like a question, but his tone holds no room for negotiation.

“No,” Feinberg grumbles, his strength wiped. “And you can’t convince me to.”

Couriway lets out a long sigh. The faint scent of smoke lingers on his breath. “Why not?”

Feinberg doesn’t answer. He can’t come up with one that doesn’t sound like an excuse. Instead, he shuts his eyes, ignoring the afterimage of flames dancing on his eyelids.

The floorboards squeak as Couriway stands. “Can you at least tell me when you’re hurting so I can help you?”

I’m always hurting, is what Feinberg wants to remark, but he holds his tongue. He doesn’t need to concern his roommate any more than he already has.

“Okay,” Feinberg mumbles, pulling the blanket over his eyes to block out the migraine-inducing fluorescent light overhead.

“Thank you,” Couriway breathes with something that sounds like relief, and Feinberg is struck with a strange sense of deja vu.

Why did you help me? What do you get out of this?

A whole lot of headache, apparently.

“Fein?” Couriway calls from the other room. 

Feinberg hums in acknowledgment. 

“I’m sorry for calling a hero on you.”

When Feinberg doesn’t reply, Couriway continues. “I know you don’t trust them.”

Feinberg rolls his eyes, though he knows no one can see. 

“I don’t trust heroes, but I trust you,” Feinberg mutters to the couch, unsure if his words can reach Couriway from such a distance.

Couriway is silent for a moment. When he speaks again, it’s quieter than before. “Even after I betrayed your trust?”

Feinberg resists the urge to groan. “You didn’t betray shit, Couri. Icarus saved my life. You saved my life. I think that makes up for any dumb shit you did before.”

“You’re still allowed to be upset with me.”

Feinberg pulls the blanket all the way over his head, burrowing beneath it. “Well, I’m not. So shut up and take a shower. It already smells enough like a hotbox in here.”

Chapter Text

Couriway is only two minutes late to work the following morning. 

He pushes open the door to the lobby, checking his watch and comparing it to the clock on the wall. 

Make that three minutes late. His watch is slow.

“You look like hell.”

I feel like hell.

“Funny,” Couriway grumbles, throwing his briefcase on the couch and turning to face Nerdi. “My roommate said that to me, too. You know, the guy who almost died.”

Nerdi stands, studying Couriway from across the room. He leans against the front desk, his palms spread in front of him. “And you’re deflecting. What happened?”

“When I mentioned the guy who almost died, I wasn’t referring to Feinberg.” Couriway sinks into the couch, avoiding Nerdi’s judicious gaze. 

Nerdi practically jumps over the front counter. He crosses the lobby in seconds, throwing himself onto the couch next to Couriway. “You mean recently? Not any of your other near-death experiences?”

Couriway nods. The bravado he once felt crumples in Nerdi’s presence. He feels cut and splayed open by Nerdi’s icy blue eyes. 

Nerdi has a knack for seeing directly into Couriway’s soul. He shares that trait with Feinberg.

Nerdi gives Couriway another once over, his brow furrowing. “You don’t look hurt. That scrape on your cheek is gone.” He lifts Couriway’s hand. “And the bruise on the back of your hand from when you closed it in my car door… I don’t see it, either.”

Couriway meets Nerdi’s eyes, and he can read the certainty beneath the concern. Nerdi knows what happened, but because he’s such a gracious man, he’s waiting for Couriway to confirm. 

Couriway finds no answer to give. Where would he start?

Nerdi inhales sharply, letting go of Couriway’s hand. “You spoke to Fine again.”

Couriway’s excellent hero training prevents him from flinching outwardly, but it doesn’t stop his heart from plummeting into his gut. 

“Spoke is a stretch,” Couriway manages, his voice awfully meek. “I said a few words to him, I think. He never spoke to me.”

Nerdi lets out his withheld breath. “You think?”

Couriway shakes his head, staving off the memories of smoke and kerosine. “I don’t remember well. It was… I barely slept last night.”

Nerdi leans forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “What do you remember? Tell me everything.”

Couriway stands on unsteady legs, grasping for his briefcase a few times before finding the handle and dragging it off the couch. “In my office.”

Nerdi is on his feet in an instant, taking Couriway’s briefcase from him. “I’ll meet you there. I’m getting you something to drink.”

The office door opens. 

Couriway looks up from behind his hands, where he’d buried his head in his arms. He sits up, palms moving to brace himself against his desk. 

Nerdi shuts the door behind him and places two cups on Couriway’s desk. “I know you don’t like coffee, but I think you need it.”

“Thanks,” Couriway says, unable to keep the misery out of his tone though his gratitude is genuine. He doesn’t move to take the cup even as Nerdi sits across from him, reaching for his.

Nerdi, thankfully, doesn’t comment. “You sure you’re okay?”

Couriway lets out a deep sigh. “Physically, yes. I’m better than I have been in years. Minus the sleep deprivation.”

“Even though you almost died? When? Yesterday?”

“Last night,” Couriway corrects. “Fine is to blame for that. For the well-being part. Not the almost dying part. That guy is better than any plastic surgeon or anti-aging cream.”

Nerdi takes a long sip from his drink. “But you were injured, and Fine healed you? Is that what you’re saying?”

Couriway nods. “I’m not exaggerating when I said I almost died. He saved my life.”

Couriway doesn’t miss the way Nerdi’s breath hitches subtly. 

Nerdi sets his drink down to wring his hands together. “Were you shot? Stabbed? Poisoned?”

“Burned.” Couriway can’t subdue the shiver that passes through him. “My back. My wings.”

Horror flashes unabated in Nerdi’s eyes. “No.”

“Some of Fruitberries’s people came looking for me while I was on patrol. I thought they were just there to taunt me, so I flew away and waited them out.” Couriway swallows in a vain attempt to clear his throat. “But then I realized they might have been trying to distract me so they could get to Feinberg.”

Nerdi chews on his lip. It’s rare to see him speechless. Couriway decides immediately that he doesn’t like it.

Couriway stares at the steam drifting from the surface of his coffee. It collects on his glasses, fogging the lenses. “I flew home. I didn’t see anyone, so I thought I was safe.”

Nerdi reaches for his drink, shakily lifting it to his lips but stopping short of taking a sip.

“I landed in the parking lot and the next thing I knew, there was a gun to my head. They wanted—“ Couriway’s voice breaks off, but he clears his throat again, pressing on. “They wanted to know about Feinberg. They asked for everything I knew about the man I rescued from the alley.”

“His name,” Nerdi mutters, glaring at his drink like it nearly killed Couriway last night. “Did they mention Feinberg’s name?”

Couriway shakes his head, clearing the fog from his glasses. “No. If they knew his name, they would have used it to torment me. I told them to fuck off.”

Nerdi huffs out a breath. It could have been a laugh if the subject matter were at all humorous. 

“They didn’t like that, so one of them unleashed their fire powers point-blank to my wings.” Couriway swallows a pathetic whimper. “It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life. And I’ve had a burst appendix and kidney stones.” 

“Couri,” Nerdi says softly, smart enough not to let pity seep into his tone. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

“I didn’t tell them anything. Even after they burnt all my feathers to a crisp. I couldn’t feel the bone anymore, either.”

Nerdi chokes, all but slamming his drink against the desk. “They burnt off your wings? All the way to your shoulders?”

Couriway nods. “That’s what it felt like. Only they know for sure. And Fine, I guess. I wish I could have talked to him.”

“Fine,” Nerdi whispers. “Was he with them?”

Couriway shuts his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

Couriway scrunches his eyelids together until stars dance across his vision. “They had his goggles. They claimed they had access to a healer that could, quote, give me my wings back.”

“But that’s impossible.” Nerdi drums his fingers against the desk. “You think they meant Fine?”

Couriway opens his eyes, meeting Nerdi’s. “I know they meant Fine.”

Nerdi squints at Couriway. “But they were lying.”

Couriway takes a breath. He opens his mouth to explain everything that happened between Fine and Fruitberries’s lackeys. The agony, followed by the sudden lack thereof, the delirious euphoria of his feathers tickling the back of his neck after he buried Icarus in the depths of his mind. Fine’s eerie, yet comforting silence. His miracle of nature and his carefully controlled gait as he walked away from it.

The words die on Couriway’s lips. He manages a quiet “yes.”

“Your wings…” Nerdi’s voice breaks off. This time, Couriway isn’t lucky enough to be spared from pity. “Couri, I’m… I’m so sorry.”

Couriway grits his teeth. He presses his knuckles to his brow, massaging the tension out of it.

Nerdi’s hands navigate to his hair, his fingers tangling with his golden locks. “Fruitberries… I never thought he would stoop that low. We should have had security with you at all times. You shouldn’t have been alone.”

“Nerdi,” Couriway whispers.

“This is my fault. I should have seen this coming. As your manager, this is entirely on me. Fuck, dude.” Nerdi lifts his head, his eyes watering.

“Nerdi,” Couriway repeats, louder.

Nerdi stands and begins pacing the room, muttering to himself.

Couriway slams his fist against the desk. “Aegis! My wings are fine.”

Nerdi spins on his heel. “Fine?” Nerdi sputters, incredulous, arms extended to his sides. “They’re gone. You said—“

“They were gone.” Couriway stands, ignoring a bout of dizziness that makes his head rush. He takes a deep breath. “Fine got the jump on my attackers and knocked them out so he could heal me.” Couriway takes a steadying breath. “When Fine healed me, he healed my wings, too.”

Nerdi’s eyes are searching, pleading. “That’s not possible. Severed limbs don’t grow back, so there’s nothing a healer can do for them. I’ve been in this business for years, Couri, if there was a healer capable of regrowing entire limbs, I would know.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” Couriway shrugs his blazer off, hoping Nerdi doesn’t notice the trembling of his shoulders. He isn’t sure if his wings are completely intact. He hasn’t tried to summon them since the attack.

Couriway rolls his shoulders, letting out a shaking breath, and summons his wings.

The air stills. The skin stretched across Couriway’s shoulderblades prickles, quickly turning into an itching sensation. 

Time slows to a stop as Couriway is transported back to the night before. Fine’s hand is on his shoulder, gently squeezing.

Then, Couriway feels the unmistakable stretch of his wings emerging from his back. He watches the room grow darker as they block out the wall-length window behind him.

Nerdi’s jaw falls open. “Icarus. Turn around.”

Couriway frowns. “Can’t you see them from here? My wings are fine.”

Nerdi shakes his head, taking a few tentative steps closer. “No, you need to see them. Look at your reflection in the window.”

Couriway doesn’t need to look at his reflection. As he turns, his feathers brush against the walls, nearly swiping everything off his desk before Nerdi briefly summons a shield over the desk to protect against any coffee-related accidents. 

Peering at his reflection in the window, Couriway’s gaze starts at his left shoulder and runs along the top of his wing. When Couriway expects his feathers to taper off, his wing keeps going until his wingtips press against the wall, curling inward. “Shit.”

Nerdi’s head pops up above Couriway’s left wing. “They… They never got that big before, did they?”

Carefully, Couriway folds his wings once, then twice, before pulling them toward his body and finally pressing them flush against his back. They disappear beneath his skin once more and Couriway topples forward at the sudden loss of weight on his back. Nerdi is quick to steady him with a hand on his shoulder, presenting Couriway his jacket with his opposite arm.

Couriway turns, taking his blazer from Nerdi and throwing it across his shoulders. He doesn’t bother to put his arms through the sleeves as he slumps into his chair. 

“No,” Couriway breathes. “Not even during perihelion.”

“During what?”

“Perihelion.” Couriway picks at the faded lacquer of his desk. “When the sun is closest to the Earth.”

Nerdi lowers himself into the chair across from Couriway, a hand pressed against his forehead. “Fine did that? All by himself? You’re certain?”

“He arrived alone and left alone.” Couriway dips his chin. “He never said a word to me. Not when I begged him to kill me or when I thanked him.”

The gasp Nerdi swallows is audible. “You begged him to kill you?”

A pang of shame reverberates in Couriway’s chest before it’s engulfed by anger.

“It fucking hurt, Nerdi,” Couriway mutters, dropping his head to rest his forehead in his hands. He can’t bear to look Nerdi in the eyes. “My wings were ripped from my back and burnt to a crisp. Icarus was dead. I had nothing left to live for. At least that’s what I thought.”

“I mean, I don’t blame you,” Nerdi stammers. “I just, I thought he’d have something to say about that. A professional hero begs to be killed by his hand and he doesn’t say a thing?”

Couriway lets out a low groan. “It doesn’t make any sense to me, either. You’d think he’d use my vulnerability against me. At least then he would get something out of it. Maybe ask for money, a favor, a trade secret, or do something other than heal me and walk away.”

“What?” Nerdi’s voice sounds closer now. He must have leaned forward in his seat. “Fine achieved the god-damned impossible and he didn’t stick around to soak up the glory? Not even a ‘you're welcome’ or ‘no problemo, señor’? Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Couriway mumbles to his desk. “He drives me insane. I can’t get in his head. The almost dying thing sucks, but I’ve been there. Owing my life to a miracle-working stranger with no clear motive is new.”

Nerdi hums. “Maybe his motive is simpler than you think.”

“What?” Couriway lifts his head just enough to meet Nerdi’s eyes. “You think he sticks his neck out like that for any old burn victim on the street? What does he want with me?”

Nerdi shrugs. “He likes you, but more importantly, he doesn’t like Fruitberries.”

“And how would he know those thugs were affiliated with Fruitberries?”

Nerdi clicks his tongue. “They were organized. Anyone with the guts to attack a pro has gotta be working for someone even scarier than a hero. Couple that with their unusually cruel interrogation techniques, and it’s not exactly rocket surgery.”

Couriway resists the temptation to roll his eyes. “So why wouldn’t he just team up with me? Why lurk in the shadows?”

Nerdi stands. “That, my friend, is what we’re putting a team together to find out.”

“A team? Is that necessary? Most of HBG is already on Fruitberries’s back.”

Nerdi tosses Couriway a sideways glance. “We need to cast a wider net. I’m thinking of contacting other agencies. I’m sure I could get mister number one on board if I explained what Fine can do.”

“No!” A shot of adrenaline jolts Couriway to his feet, his fists braced against his desk. “You can’t tell anyone what Fine did. If word gets out, who knows what kind of awful things people will do to get to him—“

“Couri, we’re dealing with someone who can defy the laws of nature.” Nerdi places his hands on his hips. “If he wants protection he can turn himself in.”

“For the crime of what?” Couriway’s volume grates against his ears. “Saving the life and career of an injured hero? Is that how we want to repay the favor? By ratting him out? Throwing him to the wolves?”

“If we can get to him first, there will be no wolf-throwing,” Nerdi says, effortlessly calm. “He’s an extremely valuable asset to us.”

“He’s not a tool, Nerdi!” Couriway stomps the hardwood, sending a tremor through his desk that nearly topples his coffee. “He’s a person. A human being! I refuse to let you corner him into working for you.” Couriway takes a breath, dropping his voice an octave. “You’re my friend, but don’t think for a second that Icarus won’t stand in your way.”

Nerdi blinks, his eyes drifting to the floor. “Do that again.”

“Do what again?”

Nerdi gestures to the hardwood. “Stomp the floor. Do it just like you did before.”

Couriway raises an eyebrow at Nerdi, but does as he was asked, lifting his leg and slamming his heel into the ground as hard as he can.

The force of Couriway’s stomp rattles the desk as it did before, but this time, the coffee cup on Couriway’s desk tips over. Nerdi, ever so quick on the draw, summons a translucent magenta shield to block the liquid from spilling out.

“That,” Nerdi whispers, reaching forward to return the coffee cup to its upright position. “Is not normal.”

Couriway crosses his arms over his chest. “Physics isn’t normal?”

Nerdi shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be able to knock over a full cup of coffee with one stomp of your foot. Especially not in the sorry state you’re in.”

Couriway opens his mouth, but Nerdi catches his gaze, shooting Couriway a look as if daring him to argue.

“What are you implying?” Couriway asks instead. 

Nerdi chews his lip for a moment, his eyes dropping to the cup on Couriway’s desk. “Fine isn’t a healer. He’s an amplifier. A human steroid shot.”

The office is silent for a moment. Couriway hums, considering. 

A superpower that strong isn’t unheard of, but those born with them rarely make it to adulthood. Most human bodies can’t withstand that much potential energy. 

“Powers like that come with a price,” Couriway mutters, recalling his run-in with a gang of drug dealers that dealt in power-enhancing substances. The twisted husks of human beings he encountered, the nonsense they babbled on about—nothing like that resembles Fine. “What’s his?”

The bathroom is dark as Feinberg shuffles inside. Couriway is sleeping and Feinberg can’t risk waking his roommate.

Feinberg braces himself against the bathroom counter, staring at his own disheveled reflection. Sweat trickles from his jaw; his hair clings to his forehead.

His right arm trembles, bearing most of Feinberg’s weight as his left arm throbs, burning in arching patterns across his skin. He lets out a strangled sigh. To his ears, it’s more of a groan.

Feinberg checks his watch. He had to start wearing it on his right wrist because moving his left arm has become a monumental and painful task. 

2:34 AM. July 8th.

Exactly one hour after Feinberg gave up on trying to sleep, and exactly two weeks after the attack in the parking lot.

The day after Feinberg healed Icarus’s wings, a web of raw, branching scars appeared on Feinberg’s left upper arm, almost reaching his collarbone. The pattern resembles Lichtenberg scarring to a frightening degree, but Feinberg hasn’t been electrocuted recently.

It must have something to do with his power. 

In the hospital, Feinberg dreamed of something like electrocution, sparks starting in his hands and searing through his body like lightning searching for the ground.

He vaguely recalls those branching patterns in his dream. They flashed across his eyelids and tore through his veins. Every neuron lit up in agony until his nerves finally gave out.

With a breath sucked sharply through his teeth, Feinberg hopes his dream wasn’t a premonition.

Every time he closes his eyes, the scars on his arm stir to life once more, reminding Feinberg of the sacrifice he made. He’d been ready to die, back then, in a smoky parking lot at midnight, for the sake of alleviating Couriway’s pain.

He never thought he’d become a vessel for the agony when it needed somewhere to go.

You care about him. A professional hero, mind you. Not some nobody either. Icarus. Number three in the country.

Feinberg grits his teeth, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror. 

Maybe Reign was right. Maybe Feinberg is in way over his head. 

Not that it matters now. The damage has been done, then healed, only to reappear somewhere else.

Sleep has become impossible for Feinberg. Even in the rare moments that his body gives out entirely, Feinberg is partly conscious, existing in a feverish state of semi-lucidity. 

Luckily, Couriway hasn’t noticed anything yet. He’s been too focused on work to hover over Feinberg like he did before the incident in the parking lot.

Lichtenberg scarring is supposed to be temporary. Ruptured blood vessels will eventually repair themselves and time will weather the pain.

They shouldn’t still be here after three days. They shouldn’t sting like fresh wounds.

Letting out a tense breath, Feinberg attempts to shift his weight back to his left arm. 

A spike of agony shoots down his arm the moment Feinberg lifts his hand to get a better grip on the counter, and he jerks backward, stumbling into the medicine counter behind him. 

A few bottles tumble to the floor, rolling across the tile to chase their newfound freedom.

Feinberg flinches at the noise, his breath catching in his throat. Cautiously, he bends down to pick up the stray pill bottles, which rattle in protest despite Feinberg’s best effort at keeping them still. 

Evidently, holding three pill bottles in one hand is a task not suited for a man like Feinberg, who manages to catch one of the escapee bottles in his left hand before earning a painful reminder of why he wasn’t using that hand in the first place. He lets go of the bottle instantly as if it burned him, which isn’t far from reality.

Feinberg groans under his breath, placing two of the bottles back on the shelf before turning to locate the one he dropped.

“Fein?” Calls a gravelly, sluggish voice. “What’s going on?”

Feinberg winces, yanking down his shirt sleeve to hide the scars on his left arm.

The bathroom light flickers on, briefly blinding Feinberg before his eyes adjust and his roommate, Couriway, comes into focus.

Couriway stands in the bathroom doorway, squinting at Feinberg because the idiot’s glasses are missing. 

Judging by the wrinkled pajamas and nasty cowlick Couriway is sporting, he must have rolled out of bed moments ago and forgotten to put his glasses on.

“Dropped something,” Feinberg answers, his voice cracking unexpectedly. “I was just leaving. You can have the bathroom to yourself.”

Couriway shakes his head. “I don’t need to use the bathroom. I'm here because I was worried about you.”

Feinberg huffs amusedly. “All I did was drop a pill bottle.”

“No,” Couriway yawns. “There was more than one.”

“Okay,” Feinberg says, biting his tongue as his arm throbs. “I knocked over, like, three of them. Who cares? Go back to bed.”

“That’s not like you.” Couriway crosses his arms, his contemplative brown eyes barely visible between his scrunched eyelids. “Something’s wrong with you. You’ve been acting weird.”

Feinberg’s right hand finds his opposite bicep, massaging the skin in a futile attempt to soothe the ache beneath. “Couri, it’s past midnight. I don’t want to have this conversation right now.”

Couriway doesn’t budge from the doorway. “When else am I gonna be able to talk to you about this?”

Feinberg grips the fabric of his sleeve. “About what?”

“About you.” Couriway gestures to Feinberg as if that answers anything. “And your weirdness. You’re hiding something from me.”

Feinberg rolls his eyes, ignoring the static that prickles at the edge of his vision. “For the last time, I have nothing to hide from you.”

Couriway glares at Feinberg, though it may not be from malice. “If you’re not hiding something from me, why are you avoiding me?”

Feinberg is quickly tiring of this conversation. The burning in his arm refuses to abate, and it seems to flare every time Couriway speaks. “I’m not avoiding you, either. I’m a grown man. I don’t need your constant hovering.”

“I’m just worried,” Couriway says, exasperated, like a parent attempting to reason with a child. 

Feinberg grits his teeth. “You don’t need to be.”

Couriway’s posture is tense. He takes a steady breath, but his shoulders stay rigid. “I’ll believe you when you stop acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird, Couri,” Feinberg snaps in tandem with a flare of pain in his arm. “You just can’t handle not being in control.”

“You think that’s why I’m worried?” Couriway scoffs, leaning forward. “Feinberg, I worry because I care about you.”

The searing sensation in Feinberg’s nerves comes to a criscendo at the same time his temples throb with exhaustion. “Yeah, well, I didn’t fucking ask you to!”

Feinberg hadn’t meant to raise his voice, it just happened, like the scars on his arm appeared out of nowhere. Like the light above his head flickered on without warning. Like the buzzing of the faulty air conditioner grated against Feinberg’s ears for a second too long.

Though he hadn’t asked for it, the pain is here, sapping Feinberg's composure until it dissolves under the pressure.

Feinberg would do anything to be rid of the pain, and it has to go somewhere.

“I never asked you to care about me,” Feinberg seethes, desperate to ease the tension in his chest. “Actually, it would be so much easier for me if you didn’t. I could live my life the way I'm supposed to without you getting in the damn way every two fucking seconds.”

Couriway’s eyes widen, even as the light undoubtedly burns his retinas, uninhibited by his glasses. 

“I’m perfectly happy to suffer in silence,” Feinberg breathes, the air hot in his lungs. “Stop trying to make me talk about it.”

As Feinberg adjusts to this new baseline level of pain, he watches Couriway’s expression morph from shock to something like anguish.

Then Couriway’s eyes begin to water. Tears are trickling down his cheeks before Feinberg can process what happened.

“What?” Feinberg sputters, searching for the words to comfort his roommate. “Couri, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t…”

Couriway shakes his head, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “No, I’m sorry. When you first got hurt, I couldn’t imagine what you were going through, but recently, I…”

Couriway trails off, but Feinberg follows his unspoken words, recalling the night that Icarus lost his wings.

Feinberg, or rather his alter ego Fine, put him back together, but the damage had been done. Fine could ease the pain, but he couldn’t wipe the memory from Couriway’s mind.

Despite knowing the answer to his question, Feinberg speaks quietly, unsure if he wants Couriway to hear him. “Did something happen?”

Couriway sniffles, reaching behind Feinberg and retrieving a tissue from the bathroom counter. “Do you remember that night with the fireworks?” 

Feinberg nods. It was only a few weeks ago, but then again, Feinberg was pretty out of it.

“Some people got burned, uh, pretty bad.” Couriway’s voice cracks. He absently dabs the tissue at the corners of his eyes. “And… Those screams, Fein. I can’t get them out of my head. They must have been in so much pain, and all I could think about was you.”

Feinberg fails to suppress a shudder. Couriway’s voice, watery and vulnerable, is all too similar to the fateful night, replaying in the back of Feinberg’s mind.

Couriway once begged Feinberg to put him out of his misery. He hadn’t known he was speaking to the same man that stands in front of him now, but even if he had, Feinberg suspects his words would remain the same.

Having experienced more than his fair share, Feinberg is certain of one thing: pain makes people hysterical. It turns them into shadows of their former selves. If the pain passes, it leaves emotional scars in its wake. Some never heal.

Icarus is no exception.

Feinberg’s arm kicks up another fuss, demanding his attention, but Feinberg can’t focus on anything but Couriway. “Me?”

“Yeah, I…” Couriway tosses the tissue in the trashcan and reaches for another. 

Feinberg sighs and hands him the full box.

Couriway meets Feinberg’s eyes as he takes the box of tissues. “Most people have family or friends to fall back on when they get hurt. Someone they can count on to have their back. It makes the hardship they go through more bearable.”

Feinberg nods again, fearful of his voice catching if he tries to use it.

“I remember, after I left you on the couch, I thought about what you said.” Couriway’s fingers clutch the eyes of the tissue box, his grip flexing the cardboard beneath. “About how you’re always the one fixing things. You’re always shouldering things alone, and, and I realized, I-“ Couriway chokes on a swallowed sob. 

The sound is identical to the distraught sniveling of wingless Icarus, whose burns were brutal enough to require every last drop of energy Fine had to give and then some.

Does this hurt you as much as being burned?

Feinberg doesn’t have time to give that thought any consideration, because Couriway reaches forward, grabbing Feinberg’s left forearm, his other arm clutching the box of tissues to his chest. 

Feinberg fights the instinct to flinch, watching Couriway carefully.

“I failed you, Feinberg. You needed someone, and I wasn’t there. You had to suffer alone because I couldn’t get over my stupid ego.”

“Is this about my injury?” Feinberg whispers, staring at the hand clutching his forearm. “I told you I don’t blame you for that.”

“It doesn’t matter if you forgive me.” Couriway lets go, finally, and Feinberg fights his instincts again, this time refusing to replace Couriway’s hand with his own. “It still happened. I still… I still failed you.”

Feinberg shrugs. “I had Icarus.”

Couriway chews on his lip. “Icarus isn’t your friend. I’m… I’m not your friend.”

“What?” Feinberg struggles to keep his mounting panic from aggravating his scars. “Of course you are.”

Couriway sniffles, shaking his head. “A real friend would have noticed how much pain you’ve been in.”

Feinberg frowns. “You did. You’ve been nagging me about it for weeks. It’s all we talk about anymore.” 

Feinberg lets a bit too much bitterness sneak into his tone. Couriway must have caught on, because the swirl of emotions in his eyes intensifies.

Strangely, Couriway smiles. It’s not a joyous grin, but his lips curve upward all the same. “I’m not talking about physical pain, you absolute brick.”

Feinberg blinks. “I don’t understand.”

Couriway sets the box of tissues on the shelf Feinberg stumbled into moments ago. “Seriously? Did you not hear yourself when you snapped at me earlier? You never raise your voice to me unless something’s really bothering you.”

“Yeah, you were bothering me,” Feinberg retorts, but his tone falls flat when he fails to muster any malice.

Couriway, the capricious idiot, smirks. “Not enough to warrant that kind of reaction. You weren’t actually mad at me, Fein.”

Feinberg huffs. “Bold of you to assume who I am or am not mad at.”

“Okay, genius.” Couriway places his hands on his hips. “Go on, then. Tell me why you were angry at me.”

“You-“ Feinberg stammers, before realizing he doesn’t have a good answer. 

Why was he angry? 

His arm was hurting, the lights were too bright, and Feinberg wasn't used to being cared about. He couldn’t handle the pressure of everything at once, so he snapped. 

Couriway happened to be the reason for all of those things. So he said whatever he could to get Couriway to leave him alone.

Feinberg has been in pain all his life. If Feinberg were alone, he could handle the pain. The discomfort. The newfound feelings he can’t put a name to.

What he can’t handle is someone else seeing him like that. Someone else to witness to the worldbearer crumbling beneath his own weight.

Keenly aware of the silence his thoughts created, Feinberg clears his throat. “I… Didn’t want you to worry about me.”

“Why?”

“You know how they say if a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around to hear it, it doesn’t make a sound?” Feinberg swallows the lump in his throat. “If I promise to be strong and protect everyone else, and they see me fall, they would be terrified. But if they don’t see, they don’t worry. If I’m going to fuck up, I like to make damn sure it only hurts me.”

“The people that love you will find out eventually.” Couriway’s voice is soft, gentler than it has ever been before. “Wouldn’t you rather they learn from you? So they can be there for you. The people you’re trying so hard to protect are hurt most by feeling like they can’t help you in return.”

Feinberg can’t bring himself to meet Couriway’s eyes. He settles for the bathroom tile. “Are you talking about yourself?”

Feinberg glances up just in time to watch Couriway nod solemnly. 

“No one is meant to do everything alone,” Couriway says, his cheeks still shiny with tears. “Not even you, mister Independent.”

Somehow, Feinberg hadn’t noticed the slew of unpleasant feelings simmering just beneath the surface of his carefully-crafted facade, but his roommate did.

Maybe his facade wasn’t meant for fooling onlookers.

Feinberg brings the back of his hand to his forehead. He’s still running hot. “This is not a conversation to be having in the middle of the night.”

Feinberg’s voice must have been more strained than he realized, because for once, Couriway doesn’t press the matter.

“Are you okay?” He asks instead.

Couriway knows the answer to his question. He has to. He’s fishing for Feinberg to admit it himself.

The people that love you will find out eventually.

“I’m fine,” Feinberg says, both an admission and a lie laced with enough honesty to soothe the ache in his veins.

An alarm blares in Feinberg’s ears. It’s not his own—he turned his off days ago when it became clear that sleep was a lost cause.

Feinberg has been in pain all his life. His nerves have always been more sensitive than the average person. He’s used to living with a baseline pain level of three or four.

His pain has never been this bad.

At night, Feinberg has long since stopped tossing and turning. It doesn’t do him any good. No matter how he lays, his arm buzzes with electricity, firing off stray sparks that aggravate old scars. 

Eventually, Feinberg’s pulse would slow to something resembling a resting heart rate, his eyes glazed, breaths rattling in his lungs. Part of him is thankful that he never lost consciousness—he can’t be certain his heart rate won’t take a turn toward agonal rhythm should he fall asleep.

Feinberg spent his nights like that—half-conscious and feverish, but never truly resting. His nervous system wouldn’t allow it. Hours crawled by, unnoticed by his internal clock. 

He must have gotten some sleep, some amount of time barely measurable, because he would have been dead weeks ago if he’d been conscious the entire time. He hasn’t started hallucinating, either, which means he hasn’t reached lethal territory of sleep deprivation. It’s the closest thing to hope Feinberg has.

When he wakes, if you can call it waking, it’s to Couriway’s alarm across the hallway. Every day starts exactly like today: with pain.

His arm aches like usual. His head is bothering him more than usual because this is the third time Couriway has hit snooze on his alarm. 

Feinberg sighs, shutting his eyes though it brings him no reprieve. 

After Couriway finally turns off his alarm and the bathroom door creaks open, Feinberg decides he might as well get up, too. 

Lying awake in agony for eight hours at a time tends to work up an appetite. 

Feinberg sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and drags himself to his feet. 

Feinberg stumbles immediately. He leans forward to grab the edge of his nightstand for leverage, but his fingers refuse to bend. Lightning sparks in his palm and travels up his arm as Feinberg scrambles to grip the nightstand and fails, his elbow buckling beneath his weight. 

His legs don’t fare much better. He hasn’t stood in hours and he lacks the respite of sleep. He stumbles backward, his spine meeting the bedframe as he slides to the floor. 

Before Feinberg can so much as breathe, his left arm takes this moment to catch fire, searing his muscle from the inside out. Feinberg fails to contain a pained groan as he brings his right hand to knead uselessly at the flesh of his left bicep. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, stinging tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes. He can only hope that Couriway’s blow-dryer is loud enough to drown out his sniveling. 

To combat the oncoming tears, Feinberg screws his eyes closed, which only amplifies the pain in his arm as one of his senses disappears.

Past injuries, recent and long-healed, stir to life with the same agony they arrived in: hot, boiling lava flowing into his veins and coiling around his nerves, tugging and shouting, something is happening. Something bad. Help.

Feinberg’s breath is punched out of him. He doesn’t retrieve it. He can’t.

Feinberg lifts a shaking hand to his stomach, making sure his wounds aren’t literally re-opening. Upon feeling nothing but a raised scar beneath his t-shirt, Feinberg would let out a breath of relief if he had any to spare.

This is nerve damage, Feinberg thinks deliriously, it has to be.

Feinberg’s past injuries have not come back to haunt him in the physical sense, but a neurological one. His body is fine, but his brain can’t tell the difference; he isn’t dying, yet his brain thinks he is.

In Feinberg’s experience, perception trumps reality ten times out of ten.

The blow-dryer shuts off. Steps exit the bathroom and continue down the hallway before stopping by Feinberg’s door. 

There’s a knock. Then another.

“Fein?” Couriway calls from the other side of the door. “Are you okay? I heard some noise.”

Feinberg holds his breath, though he can’t do much else, hoping Couriway will give up. He can’t trust himself to speak without making his pain obnoxiously clear.

As Feinberg expected, silence does not answer Couriway’s question adequately, so the doorknob turns and the latch clicks. Hinges squeal hesitantly.

There’s a gasp, cut off halfway through.

“Fein! Jesus fucking Christ, Feinberg! What happened? Are you alright?” Couriway kicks the door open, or at least that’s what it sounds like, and Feinberg feels the floorboards sink to his left, likely accommodating Couriway’s weight.

Feinberg attempts to inhale, to get any amount of air in his lungs, but it’s impossible. He can’t open his eyes, but even if he could, he couldn’t bring himself to look at Couriway. 

Feinberg wishes he would pass out already, but there’s nothing like nerve damage to keep a man awake. He isn’t in his right mind, and that scares him more than any pain, no matter how intolerable.

Desperate for something, anything to change, Feinberg wheezes, “I… I don’t know.”

Feinberg’s voice is hoarse and wretched. He doesn’t recognize himself. Every word trembles as though it will soon shatter. He can’t pretend to be alright even if he wants to.

Couriway’s hand finds Feinberg’s left shoulder, gently squeezing. “What’s wrong? Do you need me to call someone?”

Feinberg manages to shake his head.

“What? Why not?”

“No one,” Feinberg grits out, followed by a labored breath. “Can help.”

“What do you mean, no one can help?” Couriway stammers. “What’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

“Nerve damage. Could be anywhere. Needs time before it can be treated. Not that…” Feinberg gives up on keeping himself upright. He collapses onto his right side, his left arm still pressed against his stomach. “I can afford to—fucking he-ll.”

What little air Feinberg was getting is beaten from his lungs as the muscles in his neck join the fray of agony and adrenaline. 

His peripheral nerves are affected. Not good.

Even with the electricity pulsing in Feinberg’s body, Feinberg can feel Couriway’s anxiety hovering over him like a thundercloud. 

“Okay, um, will you be okay? Like, eventually?”

Feinberg forces himself to take a breath even as pain lances through his lungs.

“Yeah.” The words take Feinberg ages to speak, his tongue numb in his mouth. “Not life-threatening. Just gotta… wait it out.”

“Okay,” Couriway breathes. The relief in his tone is a balm to Feinberg’s aching head. “Do you need anything? Water? Ice?”

Feinberg pries his eyes open to the sight of Couriway getting to his feet.

“Don’t leave,” Feinberg says before the words can form in his mind, before he can veto them for the crime of vulnerability. He lacks the strength to fight himself for the sake of vigilance.

In the blink of an eye, Couriway is back on the floor next to Feinberg. 

“Yeah, sure, whatever you need.” Couriway’s hand returns to Feinberg’s shoulder. Somehow, it calms the agony beneath just a little. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Some unknown amount of time later, the pain finally abates, ebbing to the edges of Feinberg’s mind rather than the forefront. Feinberg pries open his eyes, sitting up with great effort.

It’s next to impossible to keep his eyes open, though, because his lashes are gritted with sweat and tears and god-knows-what else.

Now that Feinberg’s blood isn’t boiling, his skin feels all too thin, his body left cold with the last of the adrenaline draining away. The still air settles atop the hair on the back of his neck and arms, goosebumps pricking beneath. A chill rakes along Feinberg’s spine, causing him to shudder.

The shudder turns into an incessant bout of shivering, and Feinberg hugs his knees to his chest in hope of conserving what little warmth he retains. 

There’s a faint rustling above Feinberg. The floorboards squeak. 

A blurry figure appears in front of Feinberg, who doesn’t bother to ask for permission before he throws a thick duvet across Feinberg’s shoulders.

A weight settles next to Feinberg. Feinberg hesitates for all of two seconds before leaning against it. It’s warm, and it spares Feinberg the effort of keeping himself upright.

After a few wordless minutes, Feinberg manages to get the shivering under control, only occasionally trembling when sweat trickles from his brow.

Feinberg is thoroughly exhausted. He needs to stand up and crawl back into bed, but his limbs are cinderblocks and Feinberg lacks the strength to think about moving them. 

He lets out a shuddering breath, shifting so even more of his weight leans against the warmth on his right before resting his head on it, too. 

Feinberg shuts his eyes. He can stay here for a while. Just long enough to recover his strength.

For the first time in weeks, Feinberg falls into a restful slumber.

For the first time in weeks, Feinberg wakes gently.

He isn’t in pain; he isn’t shivering from his apparently piss-poor circulation. 

He’s warm. 

Though it’s far from enough to make up for this month’s deficit, Feinberg got some much-needed rest, like a bandage to a gushing wound.

As expected, Couriway is the one to ruin it.

“Oh, good. You’re awake.” Couriway stands, jostling Feinberg’s shoulder. “Get up. I called in sick to work. We’re going to the hospital.”

“Fuck off,” Feinberg groans. “I told you that nerve damage needs time before—“

“Yes,” Couriway cuts in. “Just enough time for me to forget all about what happened today.”

“I’m not lying to you.” Feinberg sits up straighter, stretching the aching muscles in his back. “You’re being paranoid.”

“I have good reason to be.” Couriway crosses his arms as he peers down at Feinberg. “You lied to me about the painkillers.”

“I told you already. Anti-inflammatory drugs can’t help nerve pain, idiot,” Feinberg mutters, letting his eyes slip shut again. “Nerves don’t inflame.” Feinberg pauses. “Well, they do, but not with blood. There is no place for blood to go, ergo, there are no prostaglandins to reduce, because the pain is caused by something else.”

Couriway is quiet for a handful of stretching seconds. 

Feinberg cracks an eye open, watching Couriway take out his smartphone and type something on the screen. He squints at it before depositing it in his shirt pocket and looking back down at Feinberg. “You’re right. How did you know that?”

Feinberg offers his roommate a languid shrug, closing his eye. “I do my research when necessary.”

“Okay,” Couriway snorts, disbelieving. His left arm folds back over his right. “What is the cause for nerve pain, then?”

Feinberg almost lets out a laugh before he decides to humor Couriway. “Physical trauma to the nerves, usually. Nerve pain is neuropathic. That means there’s no middle man like damaged tissue telling the nerves what’s wrong so they can relay that information. In my case, my nerves are damaged. The damaged nerves report directly to the brain by firing off electrical signals saying ‘hey, something is seriously fucked up over here.’”

When Couriway doesn’t say anything, Feinberg impulsively fills the silence. “It’s obviously a lot more complicated than that, but I read a Wikipedia article. I didn’t go to med school.”

“How do you know your nerves are damaged?”

Feinberg hums, coming up with an explanation that Couriway can understand. “Neuropathic pain is kind of like a bad trip. You may not know exactly what it feels like, but when you feel it, it’s not hard to tell what caused it.”

Couriway mutters something under his breath. “Are you sure you didn’t go to med school?”

Feinberg nods. “Positive.”

Couriway huffs. “Whatever. We’re still going to the hospital.”

“I’m not going to the hospital.”

“If you don’t let me take you to a doctor, I'll stop paying for cable.”

Feinberg scoffs, tipping his head back to rest against the bed frame. “Nobody pays for cable anymore.”

“Have it your way.” Couriway uncrosses his arms, reaching for his phone in his shirt pocket. “I’ll call Reign right now and have him drag you to the hospital.”

“Reign’s even more insufferable than you are,” Feinberg mumbles defeatedly. “Fine, but you’re paying the bill.”

Couriway grins, twirling his keyring in his fingers. “Relax. The walk-in clinic is free.”

The clinic’s waiting room is relatively empty. Feinberg can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not as he takes a seat in one of the plastic chairs near the wall. Couriway sits next to him. 

On one hand, if the clinic were busier, Feinberg could feign fatigue and refuse to wait among a cesspool of sick people for hours. He could promise to come back another day without Couriway breathing down his neck.

On the other hand, a slow day means the patients that show up are more likely to be seen faster. Feinberg could get this humiliation ritual over with before lunch.

A harsh whisper from across the room startles Feinberg out of his staring contest with the floor. 

“Mom, look! That’s the man who figured out what was wrong with me.”

Feinberg recognizes that voice. He lifts his head to see a young boy and his mother exiting the clinic into the lobby. 

“Sweetheart, don’t bother him.” The boy’s mother warns, but it’s too late. The boy has already crossed the room in two strides, taking a seat in the unoccupied chair next to Feinberg. 

Feinberg glances up at the boy. He ignores the ache in his veins when their eyes meet. “Hello again.”

“You were right.” The boy doesn’t bother greeting Feinberg, his demeanor radiating boundless energy that Feinberg wishes he could borrow. “We got the test results back today. I have Fred’s attack or whatever.”

“Friedrich’s ataxia,” Feinberg corrects in a hushed mutter. “It’s a neurodegenerative disorder. You’re… happy about that?”

“Well, yeah,” the boy says, grinning. “I’ve always had it whether I knew it or not. Now I know, and I didn’t have to wait ten years for a doctor to finally figure it out, because you were right.”

“I was right,” Feinberg repeats, dumbfounded. 

Sure, Feinberg can read people’s nervous systems like words scribbled across a page, but he has no experience diagnosing health conditions. His guess was a shot in the dark. Realistically, plenty of ailments could have fit the bill. He could have been wrong just as easily.

But he wasn’t.

With Couriway’s stare burning into Feinberg’s neck, Feinberg almost wishes he was wrong. Tack on one more thing to explain to his roommate. 

“I never asked for your name,” the boy says, oblivious to his mother glaring daggers into his back. “Mine’s Sean.”

“Fein. Feinberg.” Feinberg extends a hand, holding his breath. 

Sean grins, taking Feinberg’s hand with youthful vigor. “Nice to meet you.”

Feinberg shuts his eyes, preparing to summon his power, but before he can send it to his fingertips, a bolt of electricity tears down his arm. Feinberg’s teeth clamp down on his tongue to prevent a yelp of surprise. He lets go just in time to prevent most of the shock from reaching Sean. 

Sean flinches, flapping his hand in the air as if he’d been burned. “Ow.”

“Sorry,” Feinberg mutters through gritted teeth. “Must have built up a lot of static electricity sitting here.”

“That’s okay, it’s not your fault,” Sean replies, meeting Feinberg’s eyes. “You look tired.”

Great. Now strangers are picking up on Feinberg’s massive sleep debt. This is a new low. Even in college he managed to keep his dark circles under control. 

Feinberg shrugs. “It’s nothing crazy. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Sean,” Sean’s mother hisses beneath her breath. “Leave him alone.”

Sean sighs dramatically, but he stands, waving goodbye. “Bye, Feinberg. Thanks again for figuring out what’s wrong with me.”

Feinberg flinches inwardly. There go his hopes of Couriway forgetting why Sean approached him. 

Feinberg nods curtly, refusing to turn back to Couriway when Sean returns to his mother’s side.

“Feinberg, who the heck was that?” Couriway nudges Feinberg’s shoulder with his. “Fein. What did he say about figuring out what’s wrong with him? What did you do?”

Feinberg grimaces against the aftershocks of the bolt that tore through his left arm. The scars lining his bicep ache with renewed fury. He lets out a withered breath. 

“Fein?” The frustration in Couriway’s voice melts into concern. “Are you okay? Fein, look at me.”

Feinberg shakes his head. “I’m good. My stomach’s bothering me again.”

Couriway hums sympathetically. “Is it the neuro-whatever thing?”

Feinberg nods. “I think it’s in my arm, too. Maybe a pinched nerve or something, but I doubt it. Hurts too bad.”

Couriway shifts in his seat, peering over Feinberg’s shoulder. “Which arm?”

“My left,” Feinberg answers, remembering how Icarus’s gaze followed Fine’s left hand as he pulled his glove back on after healing Icarus’s wings. “Since the accident, it’s been kind of… sore, but it’s gotten worse. My left hand is stiffer than my right. Harder to move my fingers.”

“You should mention that to the doctor,” Couriway says. “I don’t like watching you suffer like this.”

Feinberg absolutely will not tell the doctor about anything. He’s only here to get Couriway off his back. In the future, Feinberg will have to be more careful about hiding his pain from his roommate. Maybe lock the door next time his nerves self-destruct.

Feinberg’s fingers wrap around his upper forearm, tracing his branching scars through the fabric of his sweatshirt. What happened earlier can’t happen again. 

“I’m not suffering,” Feinberg mutters. “It’s just some pain. You’re overreacting.”

“Feinberg, I watched you almost die,” Couriway cries, his voice echoing throughout the waiting room. “Forgive me for being concerned about your health.”

Heads turn to look at Feinberg. Stares burn into Feinberg’s back, heating his already-feverish skin. Feinberg sucks in a tense breath. “I’m fine.”

“You’re in pain.”

“I’m fine.”

“Feinberg?” Someone calls. 

Feinberg glances up to see a nurse waving him over. He stands, hoping Couriway doesn’t catch a glimpse of the grimace on his face as he crosses the lobby.

“Exam room two,” the nurse says.

Feinberg braves a glance over his shoulder. Couriway has turned around in his chair, his back to Feinberg. He must be up to no good. Probably googling Feinberg’s symptoms.

A fond smirk traces Feinberg’s lips. Couriway is bound to worry himself to death over what he finds on the internet.

The exam room is quiet, just how Feinberg likes it. Free of noise, free of flighty roommates.

He sits on the crumpled wax paper laid across the cot in the corner and allows himself to enjoy the silence in preparation for it to be broken by a doctor asking him a bazillion useless questions.

Family history of illness? Doesn’t matter, it’s not hereditary. Fever? Has nothing to do with the pain. Onset of symptoms? Doesn’t matter, it’s pain from trauma to the nerves.

Finally, the most important question, or at least the most interesting: any superpowers?

None. That’s what it says on Feinberg’s ID and his chart; that’s the story Feinberg is sticking with.

A knock on the door snaps Feinberg out of his thoughts. 

Well, not entirely.

Feinberg is still thinking about how to broach the subject of his unwilling presence in the clinic as the doctor—a handsome man in his late thirties, if Feinberg had to guess—introduces himself.

How does someone tell a doctor that they’re sick but don’t want treatment? Feinberg will be looked at like a crazy person, which isn’t far from the truth, but in this instance his reasoning is logically sound.

The doctor, whom Feinberg will hereafter dub Doctor Whoever, because he wasn’t listening when the guy walked in and stated his name, flips through the file in his hands.

“On your intake form, you said you were experiencing nerve pain? What makes you so sure of that? I don’t see any prior diagnoses.”

It’s a valid question. One that Feinberg does not want to answer.

Sensing Feinberg’s reluctance, Doctor Whoever continues. “There are a lot of potential reasons for pain. Even if you’re certain it’s neuropathic, there are plenty of causes. Some of them even have treatment options.”

Feinberg clears his throat. “Look, man, I’m not trying to waste your time so I’ll be honest with you: I’m only here to get my roommate off my back because he saw one bad flare-up and decided I was dying. I don’t want to be here and I don’t want to be treated for something I know can’t be treated.”

Doctor Whoever takes a step closer to the cot Feinberg is seated on. “You’ve never seen a doctor about your pain?”

Feinberg shakes his head.

“But you’re certain you can’t be helped?”

Feinberg nods. 

“Forgive me, but as a physician I’m disinclined to let a patient with an unknown ailment walk out of here. There’s no way to be sure what is causing your pain unless you get tested.”

“Those tests are expensive and often inconclusive,” Feinberg mutters as his arm kicks up more stray flickers of electricity. “All I’m asking you to do is sit with me for a few minutes and send me out of here with a prescription I’ll never fill.”

“I can’t do that in good conscience.”

Feinberg glowers at the doctor. “Then do it in bad conscience.”

“We should at least discuss possible causes.”

Feinberg shrugs. “You can do that. I won’t humor you.”

“Spinal cord compression can feel like localized nerve damage and it has lots of causes. Most are treatable.”

Feinberg hums in disagreement. “No issues with coordination or muscle weakness. No stiffness either.”

“It could be autoimmune. Multiple Sclerosis.”

“It’s not autoimmune,” Feinberg snaps. “It’s not cancer, it’s not a bacterial infection or a virus, it’s not trauma, it’s not a blood clot, a fungus, or a damn prion disease! It’s nothing you lab coat people can rationalize.”

“Sir, I understand your frustration, but you can’t be certain—“

“I’ll show you certain,” Feinberg snarls beneath his breath as he reaches forward, curling his left hand around Doctor Whoever’s wrist. 

A familiarly agonizing bolt of lightning tears through Feinberg’s arm. In the instant before his vision whites out, Feinberg watches his scars flicker in shades of pink and then blue, stark against his skin like someone poured a glowstick in his veins. 

In the next instant, Doctor Whoever yelps in pain, but his scream doesn’t taper off after the electricity crackles to a standstill in Feinberg’s fingertips.

“Let go! Good god, I don’t know what you want from me, but please, I’ll do it! I’ll do anything, just let me go.”

Feinberg’s ears are still ringing when his brain processes the words being hurled at him. He releases his grip on the doctor’s wrist, hissing as a final burst of static jumps from his hand to the doctor’s. 

Blinking rapidly, Feinberg forces his vision to focus. 

Doctor Whoever leans against the counter, his head resting on the medicine cabinet fixed to the wall. His left hand cradles his right wrist, both of his arms trembling as he watches Feinberg with wide eyes.

Feinberg glances down at his hand, his palm aching beneath burst capillaries. “I— What just— What did I do?”

“You burned me,” Doctor Whoever growls, wincing through his sentence. He lifts his left hand, revealing a hand-shaped patch of angry red skin, already starting to swell.

Second degree.

The stench of kerosine singes Feinberg’s sinuses. Smoke settles heavily in the air. Feinberg’s breath hitches.

Feinberg shakes his head, scooting back until his shoulders meet the wall. “That’s not supposed to happen. I don’t burn people. I don’t.”

That’s not true, though, is it? The evidence is right in front of him. Fingers clasp around an aching, rosy blister. Flickers of confusion, pain, and fear dance within a hazel swirl of anger.

“What was supposed to happen?” Doctor Whoever’s glare tells Feinberg he’s in serious trouble if he doesn’t explain himself, but he can’t get words from his brain to his mouth. His thoughts get lost on the way there.

Feinberg burned somebody. He let his emotions get the better of him and he hurt someone. In the past, he was able to contain the damage to himself. No one saw. No one knew, so it never happened.

No one knew the healer was just as volatile as the rest. An open flame left to burn.

“Nobody is supposed to know, but my chart is wrong. I have a superpower. I can read people’s nervous systems if I touch them. Sometimes it shocks people at first. I didn’t—“ Feinberg can’t seem to catch his breath, despite taking in at least three per second. “I didn’t want to— I wasn’t,” he gasps. “Trying to…”

“Please, just kill me or knock me out or something. You don’t have to do this.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Feinberg stammers. They’re the only two words he can think of. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, Feinberg, breathe.” Doctor Whoever leans forward, his voice suddenly soft, barely audible beneath the agonized screaming in Feinberg’s memory. “Look at me. It’s okay. It was an accident.”

Icarus is pale. His eyes are wastelands, devoid of life. He shudders violently, as though his body can’t manage anything else.

 

“Please.”

Feinberg blinks back the heat pooling behind his eyes, watching dark spots bubble at the edges of his vision. “Couri. I’m sorry. I— I should have gotten there sooner.”

Feinberg barely notices the doctor grasp the doorknob with his good hand and throw the door open. Feinberg’s eyes follow a fluttering lab coat down the hallway and out of sight before the door shuts. 

Feinberg’s blood is boiling. It must be one hundred degrees in the tiny, suffocating exam room Feinberg is trapped in. 

His pain… it must pale in comparison to what Icarus experienced. 

“Why did you do it? What did you get out of this? Are you with them?”

I’m sorry. I should have told you who I am. I’m sorry I left you alone. I should have at least made sure you could stand. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m so sorry.

When the door swings open, the doorknob slams against the wall with a thunk that stirs Feinberg’s heart into a frenzy for a fleeting moment.

It takes Couriway half a second to get from the doorway to Feinberg, but that’s all the time Feinberg needs to identify his roommate. His blood pressure drops a few points.

He’s alive. He’s okay. Thank god he’s okay.

Couriway crouches slightly, and under any other circumstances, Feinberg would find it amusing that Couriway is barely taller than a seated Feinberg. 

Right now, Feinberg finds it awfully grim. This is the man whose life Feinberg put at risk. The man who put his life on the line to protect Feinberg.

It’s instinctual when Feinberg lifts his left hand, reaching for Couriway’s forearm beneath the cuff of his sleeve. 

He needs to make sure Couriway is okay.

Feinberg’s fingers almost brush against Couriway’s arm before he freezes in place, then withdraws his hand as though he shocked himself again. 

No. No, don’t touch him. You’ll hurt him, remember? That’s what happens when you use your power. It burns.

“What’s wrong?” Couriway’s gaze darts across Feinberg’s body. When he doesn’t find anything, he lifts his eyes to study Feinberg’s face. “The doctor won’t tell me what happened. Does it hurt again?”

Doctor Whoever shuts the door before muttering, “it looks like a panic attack.”

Panic. That’s a good word for what Feinberg is experiencing. Attack, not so much. Not him. Feinberg is not in danger.

Though Couriway doesn’t sound hurt, there’s something in Feinberg’s mind—something he desperately tried to bury—assuring him it won’t stay that way.

But I can do something about it, Feinberg thinks with no small amount of hypoxic delirium. I can’t keep him from getting hurt, but I can make it go away.

It doesn’t matter if I die here. Icarus will live. Couriway will live.

Feinberg can’t breathe through the ash in the air. His breaths catch in his throat before they reach his lungs.

Dizziness? Check. Difficulty breathing? Check.

Feinberg raises an unsteady hand, pressing two fingers to his neck, atop his carotid artery. His heart beats beneath his skin, but it’s slow. Labored.

Bradycardia? Check.

“Vasovagal syncope,” Feinberg whispers in a brief moment of alarming clarity, blinking with far too much effort. “Fuck.”

I’m going to pass out.

Feinberg attempts to say as much to Couriway, because the words vasovagal syncope likely mean nothing to him, but it appears Feinberg reached his limit on speaking.

The smoke dissipates, its fire extinguished. Feinberg, too, feels himself drifting like a blown-out candle. 

Though the smoke is gone, Feinberg’s vision still swims. His eyelids threaten to flutter closed.

“Fine,” Icarus says from somewhere beyond the haze. He sounds very un-Icaruslike. Almost fearful. “Fine, stay with me, please.”

I’m trying, dumbass.

Icarus grips Feinberg’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You have to tell me what’s wrong.”

I did. You’re just too dense to understand. Maybe the guy with the medical license will explain it to you if you ask nicely.

The moment before Feinberg’s eyes slip shut, they meet Couriway’s. Feinberg lets himself get lost in the rich chocolate-brown, brimming with concern beneath the thick lenses of Couriway’s eyeglasses. Feinberg would make fun of him for it, something about resembling a middle school nerd getting his first non-perfect score, but Feinberg’s teeth are melded together. His throat is crusted with soot.

What he would have said, if he could speak, is I’m sorry.

Those two words are all he can think of. 

When consciousness returns to Feinberg, it’s in pieces, like sand squeezing through an hourglass. 

The first thing he registers is a hushed conversation.

“You won’t tell me what caused this?”

That voice is familiar. Achingly so. Couriway, then.

“He can tell you himself. I am under a hippocratic oath not to disclose medical information about my patients. I’m not even supposed to let other people in here, but he mentioned your name. I only came and got you for his safety, not so you could pester me with invasive questions about my patient.”

“He could be dying,” comes Couriway’s not-so-quiet whisper. “And you’re worried about malpractice?”

Ah, the manipulative prowess of a professional hero. Feinberg seldom gets to witness it.

Feinberg can hear the doctor’s eye-roll. “He’s not dying. I checked his vitals. They’re all in normal range. He’s just unconscious. If he doesn’t wake up soon, then you can start yelling at me.”

Couriway huffs out a steady breath through his nose, one of his telltale signs of stifled annoyance reserved for when Feinberg forgets to throw the empty milk carton away. “He was right about the… the thing?”

“The syncope?” Doctor Whoever’s eyes must shift to Feinberg. He can feel himself being watched. “Yes. It appears so.”

“My ears are burning,” Feinberg mutters, his lungs crackling. He coughs weakly, immediately ruining any chance he had at regaining his street cred.

“You keep scaring the absolute freaking shit out of me, dude.” Couriway undoubtedly aims for scathing, but falls flat somewhere shy of gentle chiding. 

Feinberg lets his eyes flutter open. Couriway gazes at him with that kicked-puppy look in his eyes. 

“My bad,” Feinberg rasps, the words stifled even to his ears. “‘s not on purpose.”

Doctor Whoever spares Feinberg the lecture. “How are you feeling? Any better?”

Feinberg sighs, the sound strangled in his throat. “Not great. But my heart rate’s normal. I think that’s better than abnormal.”

Couriway makes a vague noise of disapproval. “You can tell your heart rate is normal without even checking?”

In lieu of rolling his eyes, Feinberg shuts them for a few seconds before leveling a half-lidded stare at Couriway. “Some people have these things called ears. Even less of those people can use them to hear sounds, like a heartbeat.”

Couriway’s smugness is audible. “You can hear your own heartbeat?”

Feinberg is quickly tiring of this conversation. Of this whole hospital charade. “During the rare occasions you shut up, yes.”

Doctor Whoever snaps his fingers. “Okay, okay, this is a clinic, not an attorney's office. You guys can bicker over who gets what in the divorce later. I need to make sure my patient is okay. I’ll check his heart rate, just to make sure. Sound good to you?”

Couriway huffs, affronted, but he nods.

Suddenly, a shudder razes Feinberg’s body before he can subdue it. He didn’t notice it before, but his fever must have spiked while he was unconscious.

Couriway fixes Feinberg with a calculating look. “Are you cold?”

Feinberg shakes his head. “Why?”

“You’re shivering,” Couriway mutters, stepping forward to place the back of his hand against Feinberg’s forehead. 

Feinberg grimaces, but he doesn’t pull away. Better to let Couriway get his mother-hen antics out here than at home where Feinberg can’t blame his temperature on passing out.

Couriway steps back, his brow furrowed as he studies Feinberg like an unsolvable puzzle. “You’re hot.”

“Thanks,” Feinberg deadpans.

“You know damn well what I meant, Feinberg.” Couriway continues on his self-righteous tirade, but Feinberg is more focused on the doctor behind him. 

Doctor Whoever retrieves a thermometer from the pocket of his lab coat before removing the plastic cap and fetching an alcohol pad to wipe it down. He gently nudges Couriway—still yammering on—out of Feinberg’s personal space. 

“Put this under your tongue. It should beep when it’s done recording your temperature. Press the button on the front to display the numerical value in degrees Fahrenheit. Tell me what it says.”

Feinberg obeys, thankful for the excuse not to respond to Couriway’s lecture. Eventually, Couriway gets the message that nobody is listening to him and shuts up. 

Feinberg enjoys the idyllic silence that follows for all of three seconds before the thermometer beeps at him.

Feinberg retrieves the thermometer, holding it out in front of him. He presses the button on the front, but he already knows what it’s going to say.

“One hundred and one point three,” Feinberg says, before the thermometer beeps again, displaying the number. 

101.3.

Still got it.

Feinberg reaches out to hand the thermometer back to Doctor Whoever, but the doctor just stares at him before blinking and taking the thermometer from Feinberg, reciting the reading himself. 

“One hundred and one point three.” Doctor Whoever looks up, stunned. “How did you know what it was going to say?”

Feinberg shrugs. “I just read the screen.”

Doctor Whoever squints at Feinberg much like Couriway did moments ago. “No, you didn’t. This thermometer beeps the second it displays its reading. You correctly guessed your temperature before the thermometer beeped. There’s no way you could have known.”

Fuck. Feinberg hadn’t meant to out himself like that; he was looking to speed things along. He needs to get out of this stuffy exam room yesterday.

Feinberg hopes his fear doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re right. There is no way I could have known. Do you know the odds of getting something like that right? Either I should go buy a lottery ticket or your thermometer is busted. Which seems more likely to you?”

Feinberg is careful not to mention the third possibility as he cuts a not-so-subtle glance to Couriway, hoping Doctor Whoever gets the message.

To his credit, understanding settles on Doctor Whoever’s features. “Yes, you’re probably right. This thing is about a decade old. The processing speed is often the first to go.”

“Okay, we get it, you need a new thermometer.” Couriway says. Feinberg almost forgot he was standing there. “He has a fever. Can’t you do something about that?”

Doctor Whoever doesn’t take his eyes off Feinberg. “I can, but I can’t legally prescribe medicine under informed consent if you are in the room.”

Couriway raises an eyebrow, glances at Feinberg, then nods. He turns and leaves the exam room without a word, shutting the door behind him.

“So,” Doctor Whoever says after the door has been closed for a few seconds. “Correct me if I’m wrong, here, Feinberg, but you knew your heart rate without checking and you were aware not only that you had a fever but also its exact temperature down to the third of a degree and you didn’t think to mention this to your physician?”

“You’re not my physician,” Feinberg mumbles halfheartedly. As it turns out, passing out does not solve an out-of-control sleep debt. In fact, Feinberg has supplied substantial evidence proving the opposite.

Stockholm, don’t hold your breath.

“I am as long as you’re here. You’re not answering my question.”

“The answer is yes, obviously,” Feinberg lilts tiredly. “But you know that. You’re fishing for more information. You want to know something else. So ask already. Save us both the time.”

Doctor Whoever nods. “How?”

Feinberg shrugs. “It’s sort of a sixth sense. Answering this question is like trying to come up with a new color. You’re not going to understand no matter how I explain.”

“Fine, this one’s easier. How were you so sure you were experiencing vasovagal syncope?”

Feinberg laughs mirthlessly. “That’s the same question. It has the same answer. I can read nerves like words on a page. When the vagus nerve is freaking the fuck out it’s not hard to connect the dots.”

Doctor Whoever shakes his head. “No, I meant how you knew what that meant. Reading the data is one thing. Interpreting it is another.” 

“I have a very boring answer for you,” Feinberg replies. “I went to med school.”

“That’s not boring. You’re obviously not a doctor, which means you quit. Why?”

Feinberg laughs again, lighter this time. “Another boring answer. I ran out of money.”

“With a power like yours, you could get a full scholarship to any university you want.”

Feinberg raises an eyebrow. “And you think that’s a good thing?”

“I didn’t say it was good or bad. I just said it was an option.”

Eager to weasel out of this conversation topic, Feinberg changes the subject. “Okay, my turn to ask questions. You lied to my roommate. Why?”

Doctor Whoever only smiles. “I had to get him out of here somehow. Something told me he’s not the type to obey authority unquestionably.”

Feinberg snorts. “You could say that. Can’t you get in trouble for lying to somebody?”

“Hypothetically, I could get in trouble for lying to a patient. He’s not my patient. You are.”

Feinberg clicks his tongue. “A doctor with a backbone. Color me impressed.”

“We’re not that uncommon,” Doctor Whoever says, taking a seat on the stool next to the cot Feinberg is sitting on. “So, your theory is that your nerve pain is caused by your power malfunctioning?”

Feinberg shrugs. “More or less. You remember my book metaphor? I know my nerves are damaged because the words on their page cut off before the ending. My power prevents or significantly lessens the effects of opiates and anti-inflammatory drugs.”

“I see why you thought coming here would be pointless. Do you have any theories on how your nerves got damaged?”

Feinberg pretends to think. “If not from my power freaking the fuck out, trauma. I got attacked by some thugs in an alley a few weeks back and they slashed me up pretty good. I made it to a hospital before I bled out, but my nerves weren’t as lucky.”

“You realize there are treatments for damaged nerves? We don’t just hand you painkillers and kick you out.”

Feinberg stares at Doctor Whoever for a few seconds. “Yeah. I read about some of them on the internet.”

Doctor Whoever ignores Feinberg’s slight. “You don’t want to try those treatments?”

Feinberg shakes his head. “No health insurance. Can’t afford it. Especially not after the debt I’m in from the original injury.”

“So your solution is to live the rest of your life in pain?”

“Not the rest of it,” Feinberg replies, sliding off the cot and getting to his feet. “Just until I can pay insurance premiums. Then I’ll consider coming back.”

“Wait,” Doctor Whoever says, and to his credit, his concern appears genuine. “If anti-inflammatory medication doesn’t work for you, what about antipyretics? A common cold could kill you.”

“Relax,” Feinberg mutters, starting toward the door and reaching for the doorknob. “If I contract West Nile, I’ll let the CDC know before I kick it.”

A firm hand around Feinberg’s wrist stops him from grabbing the doorknob. Feinberg glances up at Doctor Whoever, frowning.

“I’m serious, Feinberg. You’re already running a fever. It will kill you if you walk out of here without a way to treat it.”

Feinberg scoffs. “You can’t scare me into paying for drugs that don’t work. One hundred and one is low-grade. I’ll be fine.”

“And if it spikes? It’s better to be in a hospital.”

“All you guys would do is shove me in a bathtub of freezing water and charge me two thousand bucks for it. If I get a fever that is life-threatening, I can torture myself at home for free.” 

Doctor Whoever sighs, lets go of Feinberg’s wrist, and produces a notepad from his pocket along with a ballpoint pen. He scribbles something down before tearing the page off and handing it to Feinberg.

Feinberg takes the piece of paper, but he doesn’t have to look at it to know it won’t help him. “A prescription? You know I’ll never fill it.”

“No,” Doctor Whoever says as Feinberg flips the paper over, where a string of numbers is hastily scrawled, but legible. “It’s my personal cell phone number. Call me if anything changes. I’ll make sure you get the help you need.”

Feinberg stares at the paper in his hands before folding it in half and pocketing it. He glances back up at Doctor Whoever. “Thanks.”

The walk through the hospital parking lot is short and unbearable. 

Much like Couriway.

Couriway fidgets with his keyring, refusing to meet Feinberg’s eyes. “You diagnosed yourself.”

Feinberg lets out an amused huff. It could almost be mistaken for a chuckle. “I diagnosed myself with about-to-pass-out syndrome. On account of the fact that I was about to pass out. It doesn’t take a genius to—“

“You used the fancy medical name for it!” Couriway throws his hands in the air, his pace slowing. “Vaseline sink—“

“Vasovagal syncope,” Feinberg corrects. “Vaso is a prefix that refers to the vascular system—blood—combined with vagal, which refers to the vagus nerve; it’s responsible for lots of bodily functions, namely, heart rate. Syncope just means fainting.”

“Okay,” Couriway drawls, unlikely to have processed any of the information Feinberg spat out. He stares almost blankly ahead of him, somewhere in the direction of his parked car. “So what caused it?”

Feinberg shrugs. “The vagus nerve overreacts to a trigger, like stress or pain, and slows down the heart. Slow heartbeat means not enough blood gets to the brain and it loses consciousness. The second that there’s nothing to consciously freak out about, everything goes back to normal. People usually come to moments later, like I did.”

Couriway holds up a hand. “Yeah yeah, I know. The doctor explained that to me, you dorkass loser. I meant what caused you to faint. Stress? Pain? Something else?”

Feinberg tenses as he approaches Couriway’s car. “I don’t know. Pain, probably.”

“No.” Couriway unlocks his car before placing his hands on his hips. “No, the doctor came to get me before you passed out. If it was just from the pain you wouldn’t have been so freaked out. What happened, Feinberg?”

“Nothing happened,” Feinberg snaps, sparks dancing down his left arm. “I must have just… gotten overwhelmed or something. It’s not a big deal. Vasovagal is the most common type of syncope. It happens to most people at least once.”

“Shut up!” Couriway interrupts. “Shut up with your facts and numbers. I want to know about you. Why did this happen now? Is it the same thing that happened on the couch the other night?”

“I don’t know,” Feinberg answers, a rare honesty to his words. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Couriway considers Feinberg’s answer as he opens the driver’s side door and steps in his car.

Feinberg is about to do the same when his cell phone chimes in his back pocket. 

Curious, Feinberg retrieves his phone. The screen comes to life, revealing a notification for a message from an unknown number:

Fine, please meet me somewhere. Any time and location is okay as long as it’s soon. I need your help to stop Fruitberries before he spirals out of control. -Tapl

Then, a second, much shorter message:

It can only be you.